


Eye of the Storm

by Mx_Maneater



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Partners, Community: hp_drizzle, Draco Malfoy is Clueless About Muggle Things, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Forced Proximity, HP Drizzle Fest 2020, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Non-Linear Narrative, OH MY GOD they were roommates (but by accident), POV Draco Malfoy, Sassy Harry Potter, Sharing a Bed, Trapped, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24608419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Maneater/pseuds/Mx_Maneater
Summary: A storm rages blindly around a cabin with no doors. Without magic, Draco and Harry are trapped inside.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 45
Kudos: 401
Collections: HP Drizzle Fest 2020





	Eye of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I'm super excited to participate in this year's Drizzle Fest!
> 
> I chose the prompt, " **Teleported somewhere isolated, stuck inside (E.g. lightning, snow, etc). Basically just forced proximity and roommates** ," (sent in by [DevilRising](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilRising/pseuds/DevilRising)) and I had a lot of fun with it—so thanks for submitting!
> 
> Shoutout to my lovely beta reader [GallifreyisBurning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyisBurning/pseuds/GallifreyisBurning) as well :)

**Day 2**  
  
Draco had many reasons for wanting to kill Harry Potter—his latest, however, happened to be the most _justified_. It was a pity, really, that his wand wasn’t working, because he had thought up some spells in the past twelve hours that were so uniquely spiteful, they would’ve won awards for both cruelty _and_ creativity. If he had access to his magic, Potter would no longer be known as ‘The Boy Who Lived (Twice!),’ but rather, ‘The Boy Who Draco Cursed to have Purple Radishes Spurt out his Nose until His Inevitable Asphyxiation’ or ‘The Boy Who Slipped Mysteriously in a Gaping Chasm that Used to be a Staircase.’  
  
The point was, if he had access to his magic, Potter would be a _dead_ man.  
  
As it happened, though, he _didn’t_ —and that was the reason they were both trapped in the middle of nowhere in a cabin warded against magical interference. They couldn’t Apparate; they couldn’t Floo; they couldn’t call for help. It was a botched investigation—and _now_ , now it had turned into a relentless waiting game.  
  
Draco stalked through the claustrophobic living room once more, searching for any kind of hidden fireplace that could be connected remotely to the Floo network, though he already knew there was none. In the past twelve hours, he’d analyzed every square inch of this place, which—given the cramped quarters—didn’t take particularly long. He’d scanned every wall for secret doorways, every window for a breach in the spellwork, every drawer and nook that could possibly hide some kind of key. All for naught.  
  
He pushed aside the worn coffee table and knelt to run a hand over a tastelessly wallpapered section near the ground again. The wall was unyielding beneath his fingers, and Draco found his arm shaking slightly as the exhaustion and hysteria set in. He was _trapped_ in a house with Harry bloody Potter.  
  
He hadn’t even had a chance to gather his thoughts about that—beyond overwhelming frustration—when Potter himself appeared once more to antagonize him.  
  
“If there’s going to be a way out, I doubt it’s in the crown molding.”  
  
Draco aimed a glare at him and scrambled up off the floor. “Oh, like _you’re_ any closer to finding a way out.” Just looking at the man made him grind his teeth. “And don’t you mean ‘ _when_ ’?”  
  
Potter shrugged his big, dumb shoulders and sighed like a damned martyr. He _was_ a martyr—which made it even more infuriating. “Given the situation, I’m not feeling so optimistic about our chances. We’ll probably just have to wait until Kingsley and Robards are able to locate us.”  
  
“‘ _Not feeling optimistic_ ’?” Draco mocked, words hissing from between his teeth. “If _you’re_ not feeling bloody _optimistic_ , then who the hell will?” His hand darted to his wand to hex the git for his stupidity, before he remembered that his magic didn’t work here. He crossed his arms aggressively instead. “And it’s not about _luck_ —it’s about working hard to find a solution.”  
  
Potter scowled at that. “Right. Well, when you’re a few steps closer to getting us out of here with some contraption made of _wallpaper_ , then I’ll be sure to eat my words.”  
  
He stormed into the kitchen—which would have been more effective had it been more than three steps away.  
  
Banging open cupboards and slamming cans onto the counter, he called over his shoulder, “We’ve already searched the place top to bottom! If there was a way out, we would’ve found it. There’s nothing we can do now except wait for our team to track the portkey to our location.” He seemed to find a can that interested him, as he popped the tab and fumbled through some drawers until he found a spoon.  
  
“Track us _with what?_ The empty space where the portkey _used to be?_ In an office of Samson’s that held no clues that he even _had_ a safehouse?” He bit off his tirade to make a disgusted sound. “And what in Merlin’s name are you _eating?_ ”  
  
Potter paused mid-slurp to glare at him. “S’food,” he mumbled.  
  
“Yes, but _what?_ ” Potter glanced at the can interestedly, and Draco reached his limit. “You know what? Don’t answer that, actually. If _you_ can’t even tell, then I most certainly don’t want to know.”  
  
Potter just rolled his eyes and resumed spooning the greenish substance to his mouth. A little bit of the juice—Merlin! _juice_ —trailed down from the corner of his mouth, and Draco tried his hardest not to faint with disgust.  
  
Seeming to sense the direction of his thoughts, Potter broke into a mischievous grin and said, “You’re going to have to eat some too, if you want to, y’know, _stay alive_.” He spoke with relish too—like watching Draco debase himself would be his life’s first joy and pleasure.  
  
“If _that_ is my only option, then I’m not sure I _do_.” His stomach twisted in rebellious hunger despite his words, and he pressed his crossed arms tighter against his body, as if to quell it. The thought of consuming something so repulsive was worse though—suppose, for instance, he _did_ try to eat some and couldn’t keep it down? Then, he’d have suffered _twice_.  
  
No, he’d be staying far away from that sludge.  
  
Potter eyed him carefully, like he was cataloguing all of Draco’s prissiness and coming up with enumerated evidence for his years of animosity. That was fine. Draco wasn’t changing his mind; he didn’t give a _damn_ what the bloody oaf thought of him. It was no skin off his back to acknowledge that Harry Potter didn’t _like_ him—that was the fucking _status quo_.  
  
Of course, that hadn’t stopped Robards from pairing them together straight out of Auror training. They hadn’t even managed to settle into their new, hellish roles for _two weeks_ before they were entangled in this mess. It was unthinkable, really.  
  
“I’m going to find a way out,” Draco reiterated, turning to push around the old bookcase again in case there was something hidden there that he had missed.  
  
He heard Potter heave a sigh behind him. “Even if you _do_ find a way out, we still won’t be able to leave,” he said. “I mean, you _see_ what’s out there, right?”  
  
Of course he did, but it didn’t stop Draco’s eyes from drifting once more to the latchless window—and, moreover, what was beyond it. Not a hundred feet from the edge of the cabin roiled a storm of epic proportions. Rain fell in sheets, but lurching sideways in the gale force winds; the grey air lashed and twisted until it looked more like a solid, heaving thing.  
  
The house sat quite literally in the eye of a storm.  
  
Draco clenched his jaw to hold in a sigh of his own. He hated to admit it, but Potter was right. Even if he managed to finagle a way out of this airtight cabin with no doors to the outside, he wouldn’t be able to get past the hurricane that surrounded them. He had no doubt that the storm had been created magically as a barrier, and he was willing to bet that the wards preventing his wand usage extended to the far reaches of this weather anomaly.  
  
He rubbed at his forehead and once more cursed this mess they had fallen into. It didn’t matter how soon they were found—it would never be soon enough. 

  


**3 months ago**  
  
Draco dragged himself into the locker room after a long, grueling practice. He didn’t know what he had expected when he had joined the Auror program directly following his acquittal two long years ago, but he certainly hadn’t realized it would entail just as much physical rigor as studying and spellwork. The studying he was good at—the brutal combat training…not so much.  
  
It didn’t help that the other people in the program ganged up on him the second Robards turned his back. Nothing so crude as beating him up after hours, but little things they knew they could get away with—a kick in the shin, an elbow to the solar plexus, a chokehold just a little too firm and a little too long for the exercise. The older Aurors didn’t seem to notice, or otherwise turned a blind eye. And he didn’t expect Robards to defend him either—reluctant as he was to even admit him.  
  
So Draco had given up on healing the bruises. In the beginning, he had tried, but now there were simply too many.  
  
And he had surely earned a few more today. Muscles screaming in protest, he made it to his locker and spelled it open with a grimace. Most of the others had left by now—he always waited a bit for it to clear out first; he wasn’t one to tempt fate if he could help it. Draco pulled a jumper and some trousers from his bag before shutting his shoes in the locker and spelling it locked again. After the last incident, he didn’t mess around with his shoes.  
  
Draco headed for the showers in back. When he reached them, he saw that one of the curtains was still pulled with a towel hanging next to it; he hadn’t heard the water going, so he’d assumed that everyone had left for the day. Hesitating slightly, he stepped into the shower two stalls down and set his clothes floating above the showerhead. He had long since stopped using the outside hooks—they were too unprotected; anyone could come along and take your clothes or towel while they hung there.  
  
If they wanted to humiliate you, that is.  
  
He was just moving to close the curtain when none other than _Potter_ burst out of the other stall in a cloud of fruity-scented shampoo. The man was humming and grappling with a pile of dirty clothes and his towel—he’d gotten dressed at least before coming out, _thank Merlin_ —and he looked bright-eyed and refreshed…until his eyes fell on Draco.  
  
He stopped right outside his stall, expression hardening, and Draco didn’t know _why_ , but for some reason, his own hand paused in the act of drawing the curtain. Maybe it was because Potter so rarely even _looked_ at him these days. Despite their tumultuous past, he’d kept a calculated distance from Draco since joining the Aurors program. In fact, he was one of the few who didn’t bully or bother him—but only because he never came _near_ him at all.  
  
Draco couldn’t say why, but that pissed him off more.  
  
So perhaps it was defiance that led him to pause, glaring back at Potter from the shower. Perhaps he was trying to elicit guilt; he knew without looking there was a new bruise blooming darkly across his cheekbone. And Potter, hero only for the _deserving_ , had let it happen.  
  
After all, he may not have come _near_ him, but Draco had noticed him _watching_. He’d seen the kicks and chokeholds that lasted just a beat too long; he’d been there the day Draco’s clothes had been stolen while he was in the shower. He’d been there and stood by impassively.  
  
It was sickening.  
  
And now he stood before Draco once again, eyes passing over his bruise, eyes scanning down the broken body still hidden under his clothes—and Draco could track the exact moment in which Potter’s expression flattened. In Potter’s eyes, he read the determined decision to _ignore_ , and he watched the man’s shoulder’s square slightly before he turned and continued walking.  
  
And for a long moment, looking after him, Draco still couldn’t shut the curtain—couldn’t shut out the hurt that exploded within him. 

  


**Day 2**  
  
“You’re also going to have to sleep at some point,” Potter said in that obnoxious, nagging voice of his.  
  
Draco looked up from his perch on the couch, where he was flipping through a stack of books for hidden messages. “Don’t _tell_ me what I have to do, Potter. I’m perfectly capable of deciding that on my own, thanks.”  
  
Potter’s brow crinkled, and he sighed in that put-upon way that set Draco’s teeth on edge. “Yes, well, we’ve been here for almost twenty hours now, and you haven’t so much as _napped_. Not to mention that we’d been up for an entire day before that, running around and tracking down Samson—”  
  
“Yes, I’m _aware_ ,” Draco snapped, but cut himself off before saying more.  
  
It was true—the exhaustion was getting to him, but there was just that one glaring detail that Potter seemed keen to overlook: the bed. The _single_ bed, more specifically. The single bed that Potter _had already taken a nap on_ while Draco was trying to find a way out.  
  
He wasn’t bloody desperate enough to share the same bed as Potter. And, given the situation—how was he supposed to _relax_ in such a ridiculous predicament?  
  
Not to mention he didn’t trust Potter not to slit his throat while he was sleeping. There was a fine line between relying on your Auror partner to a certain extent in battle—out of necessity—and showing a naïve amount of trust to a person who had wanted you dead for many years. Hell, Potter had almost _succeeded_ that time in sixth year.  
  
No, Draco would not be showing any vulnerability in front of Potter. Sleeping wasn’t an option—he’d just have to find a way to stay awake. And if they were stuck here for longer than a few days…well, he’d figure something out if he needed to. Perhaps he could knock Potter out for a stint while he took a quick nap.  
  
“I’m not going to attack you in your sleep or something,” Potter mumbled exasperatedly, as if reading his very thoughts. Though, he was likely just reading the deep distrust etched into Draco’s face.  
  
He didn’t like that. He didn’t like that their pairing had suddenly forced Potter to look at him again. If the past two years had proven anything, it was that the man would rather do anything but. So any façade of friendly concern was just that—a façade.  
  
“Oh, well, excuse me for not just taking your _word_ on that,” he replied.  
  
He watched the man’s lips flatten into a hard line, and he smirked at the break in Saint Potter’s boundless patience. Truth be told, it wasn’t that hard to break at all. At least anger was better than some falsified compassion.  
  
“Malfoy,” he said slowly, like he thought he was taming some wild beast, “you don’t have to listen to me. You don’t have to _like_ me. But you _will_ need to sleep and eat at some point—and you’re literally shaking with exhaustion. Do one of the two before you kill yourself.”  
  
Draco bit back a retort to this clear, overstepping _presumption_ —long enough to recognize that he _was_ shaking. But that just renewed his prideful fury. “Stop telling me _what to do!_ ” he yelled, leaping up and grabbing Potter by the shirt.  
  
Which was a huge mistake, he realized a second later, as Potter’s face was far too close, and his green eyes were startled, yet daring, and— _what the fuck?_  
  
Draco pushed him away with a violent shove. “I’m taking a shower. Leave me the hell alone.” 

  


The bathroom, regrettably, did not have a lock, but Draco made up for it by pulling a chair in from the bedroom and blocking the door with it in case Potter tried to catch him unawares. Pleased with his own ingenuity—though, of course, still tired and furious in general—Draco finally stripped down and stepped into the shower.  
  
Hot water rolled over him, and he nearly groaned with how good it felt. He let the water wash all the frustrations from his mind, and for a long moment, he nearly let himself feel content. But while the water brought relaxation, it also brought a certain sense of clarity that cut through the hazy exhaustion layering his thoughts.  
  
Why had he freaked out when Potter got too close? Draco had been the one to grab him after all; it hadn’t come as a surprise. He was likely just tired—self-preserving in the face of starting a fight he didn’t have the wherewithal to finish. But there had also been something in Potter’s gaze that had alarmed him, something beyond his usual defiance and disregard.  
  
Draco didn’t want to think about it anymore. He finished showering, refocusing determinedly on the lack of adequate shampoo selection and how he had to use a meager _bar of soap_ in lieu of his specific brand of body wash. 

  


When he first came out, freshly dressed and clean, he definitely felt a bit more relaxed and alert. However, after sitting back down to flip through the books, he quickly realized that the shower had relaxed him _too_ much. His eyelids kept drooping, his thoughts kept wandering, and it took everything in him to keep from falling asleep on the couch.  
  
When he jerked back upright after falling forward for the third time, Draco stood and stormed into the kitchen where Potter was sitting on a stool, scanning his own stack of books, it seemed. Pointedly ignoring him, Draco began to rummage through the cupboards in search of anything with caffeine—surely, he surmised, Samson hadn’t been heathen enough to build a safehouse without _tea_.  
  
It took a while, but he eventually found a can of instant coffee—at which he curled his lip in distaste, but quickly decided _needs must_. He set the can on the counter, filled up a mug with water, and pulled out his wand to-  
  
_Oh_. Fuck.  
  
Draco stared for a long minute at the glass of water, as if he could heat it up through intense eye contact alone, but alas, his mere intentions did not produce favorable results. He analyzed the strange stove with all the nonsensical little knobs and buttons. Frowning fiercely, he looked in the cupboard underneath the counter and found an overwhelming jumble of metal pans and apparatuses staring back. If only he knew what he was looking for…  
  
It would probably be something resembling a teapot, if he remembered correctly. Something to put the water in while he heated it up with something _other_ than a spell. His eyes searched the mess but couldn’t locate anything like what he imagined.  
  
Draco ground his teeth as his mind reached the obvious conclusion. He would have to ask Potter, as much as it killed him. If he _didn’t_ , then he’d fall asleep for sure and be showing an even greater level of vulnerability. There was nothing for it then; he’d have to choose the lesser of two evils.  
  
He turned slowly, preparing a way to ask in the most dignified manner he could muster, when he noticed Potter was already watching him with amusement. His scripted words flew out the window.  
  
“P-Potter,” he managed to snarl, face already burning with shame, but forging on nonetheless. “Tell me which device I need to heat water.”  
  
Instead of answering the demand like a _normal_ person though, Potter slid off his stool with a smirk and crouched down to root around in the cupboard for a minute before coming up with a shiny, metal pitcher-thing. “Here,” he said, passing it to him, “a _kettle_.”  
  
With that cheeky tone of his, there was no way he was getting a “thank you.”  
  
The bastard watched him flounder with it—cord flopping about until Draco set it down carefully, filling the pitcher-thing with water. He had no idea how it worked, and fucking Potter was just standing there watching him as he fiddled in earnest. Eventually, his patience wore thin, and he snapped, “Well? Is it heating up?”  
  
Potter grew delighted, like he’d said something truly hilarious. “No, Malfoy, you haven’t _plugged it in!_ ” He laughed in his face, stepping forward to draw the cord into one of the little plastic plates on the wall. Then he clicked down a small lever on the kettle base and turned back with a smug grin. “There. _Now_ it’s heating up.”  
  
Draco’s _face_ was also _heating up_ , as he acknowledged this as one of the most humiliating moments of his life. He couldn’t believe that this case had subjected him to this—Potter teaching him how to use Muggle appliances. It was horrendous. It was _offensive_.  
  
He kind of wanted to die—if it would end this indignity.  
  
But rather than be deterred from the obvious mortification on Draco’s face, Potter seemed to think this interaction had paved the way for _starting a conversation_ instead. The horror!  
  
“Why do you want coffee anyway? I don’t imagine you as a coffee sort of bloke; and it’s going to make you all jittery if you haven’t eaten anything.”  
  
Draco schooled his face into a glare—the most intimidating one he could manage—and remained silent.  
  
To his shock and disgust, however, Potter _kept talking_. As if he’d been courteously _invited_ to continue—which he most certainly had not. “Seriously—if you’re going to drink that, at least have a snack. There’s some crackers and biscuits in there, if you can’t handle a can of soup. I don’t need to deal with _hyperactivity_ on top of your stubbornness and endless sarcasm.”  
  
Draco wondered whether it was the rage or his exhaustion, but his eye was _definitely_ twitching now. “You don’t ‘have to deal’ with _anything_ ,” he hissed, giving Potter another shove. The man even had the audacity to look surprised, which only made him madder still. _He_ wasn’t the one acting out of character—out of line even. “In fact, I’m not something to _deal_ with in the first place! If you don’t like my company—which you clearly _don’t_ —then why don’t you _get the fuck out of my face!_ ”  
  
After the words were out, he realized just how violently he’d yelled them. In a way, Potter’s wide, green eyes served as a mirror to his own shock—shock for snapping like that, when he’d usually deal a scathing insult; when he’d usually respond with carefully-scripted aggression of a much more controlled variety.  
  
He opened his mouth to say something, he didn’t know what—but it didn’t matter. Potter had already turned and was leaving. The man was finally taking his advice, and, as the kettle began to boil and hiss, Draco realized that it didn’t feel quite like he’d wanted it to at all. 

  


**1 month ago**  
  
“ _What?_ ” Potter shouted into Robards’ face. “You’ve got to be joking! I can’t…I mean, you can’t expect me to _partner_ with—”  
  
“I expect a lot from my team of Aurors, Mister Potter,” he interrupted. “It’s a taxing and involved profession—which I rather hoped you would have learned in training. And I assure you, _this_ is only the most basic of my expectations.”  
  
His glare was harsh and cutting, and Potter wilted visibly beneath it. “I understand that, Sir, I _do_ , but—”  
  
“But?” he dared. A wiser man would have stopped there, but no one had ever accused Potter of being wise.  
  
“—but given our tense history, I think it’s a little unfair! I mean, your Auror partner is someone you have to _risk your life_ for!”  
  
Robards swiftly turned his glare upon Draco, who—rather than stomping and yelling—had merely frozen rigidly in place when the news was revealed. Like if _he_ stopped, maybe the _world itself_ would stop and tell him it was all an ill-humored joke. But Robards’ gaze broke his last pitiful grasp at hope, and his shoulders shot up by his ears under the scrutiny.  
  
“Mister Malfoy!”  
  
“…Yes?”  
  
“Do _you_ have a problem with my assignment? Are _you_ unwilling to risk your life for your partner, like you so solemnly vowed at the initiation ceremony?”  
  
Draco swallowed loudly. “I-…” His eyes flickered to Potter, who was glaring at him now, nodding vehemently over the man’s shoulder. He felt his stomach twist with disgust. Well, _obviously_ he didn’t want to work with Potter, but…  
  
He settled his gaze back on Robards. Robards, who looked about ready to murder both of them in his office with no hesitations. Unlike Potter, Draco wasn’t an _idiot_.  
  
“Er, no, Sir,” he managed. “The assignment is fine, Sir.”  
  
Robards rolled his eyes towards the heavens with a bark of frustrated laughter. “Oh—thank Merlin! I was starting to feel like someone knew _better_ than me how I should do my _job_.” His glare fell back on Potter, who had the self-preservation to look a bit nervous now. “See, Potter—Malfoy’s fine with it. If _he_ can suck it up, then so can you.”  
  
And with a rapid dismissal, the two found themselves outside his office with a door slammed in their faces.  
  
Potter turned on him instantly. “What the _fuck_ , Malfoy? ‘The assignment is fine’? What fucking _part_ of the assignment is _fine?_ ” His cheeks were burning from the dress-down, and his eyes were sparking in that way they did before he started a fight.  
  
After two and a half years of silence, Potter’s fury was almost as enraging as it was comforting—a thought Draco quickly tucked away in the deep recesses of his mind. He slipped so easily back into his old role. “It’s not my fault if you can’t cobble together enough professionalism to perform your _job_ , Potter,” he spat. “Why don’t you quit and make my day?”  
  
At that, Potter drew his wand and seemed ready to hex him in front of his boss’ very door. “Why don’t _you?_ I still don’t even understand why you’re _here_.”  
  
And that was just rich, because why did he _think_ he was here? “I’m here to make a _future_ for myself, you arsehole! Why the fuck are _you_ doing it then? So you can wank yourself off every time you save the world?” Potter’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “Is that the only way you get off anymore? Give it a bloody rest, you _filthy fucking martyr!_ ”  
  
The man looked so mad now, that he couldn’t even form words. “I-…You-… _Fuck_ you, Malfoy! You egotistical _twat!_ ” He raised his wand threateningly at Draco’s neck.  
  
Normally, he might have backed off to save his own skin. But today…well, Potter had made him angry enough that he wasn’t even _thinking_ , let alone feeling paltry emotions like _fear_ —and he lurched a step forward so that the wand dug harshly into his throat.  
  
“Don’t,” Potter hissed, eyes narrowed, voice low. “I will hex you where you stand—don’t think I won’t.”  
  
Draco stopped, but he didn’t back down. He dared Potter with his eyes until the man furiously went on.  
  
“You know, it wouldn’t even be so terrible if you didn’t always go and _prove my point_. You acting like this? You’re _proving my point_.”  
  
Draco clenched his jaw, not wanting to ask, but knowing he was going to anyway. “And _what_ , pray tell, is your _point?_ ” he growled.  
  
Potter smiled then, but it wasn’t a kindly thing. It wasn’t the one that he saved for the public. It was bitter and wild, and just on the wrong side of unhinged. He leaned in a bit closer. “That you’re still the pathetic, cowardly _Death Eater_ you always were.” 

  


**Day 3**  
  
The storm was swirling even more violently than before. While earlier it had only been rain, now it would occasionally emit small bursts of lightning that danced across the cloud mass before dissipating. The cabin though, at its center, remained perfectly untouched.  
  
Draco had dragged a stool over from the kitchen to watch the hurricane from the window—it had been the only thing he found would keep him awake as the hours passed. After Potter had stormed off to the bedroom (the only room besides the bathroom that had a _door_ ), Draco had neither seen nor heard from him. That had been hours ago now, and from the faint light breaking in the distance, Draco suspected it was finally nearing morning.  
  
Maybe when the sun came up fully, he’d be able to expel this bone-weariness. He highly doubted it though.  
  
A while later yet, Potter finally emerged from the room, hair wet like he’d just taken a shower. He noticed Draco in the corner and sighed, looking more exasperated than angry now. “Still haven’t slept?” he asked, like he already knew the answer.  
  
“Fuck off,” Draco mumbled back, and he really shouldn’t have been surprised that his voice came out gravelly. He turned back to face the window.  
  
Potter didn’t respond to that, simply went on and started clanging in the kitchen. After a few minutes though, he spoke again in a forcibly conversational voice. “I’m making eggs. You want some?”  
  
“There’s _eggs?_ ” his mouth asked before his pride could say “no.” He whipped around to see Potter quirking a small, amused smile and beginning to pull things out of the big, humming cupboard. “If there were _eggs_ , why the _fuck_ were you eating green goo yesterday?”  
  
Potter merely laughed and started cracking eggs into the pan he’d retrieved from below. “Well, there’s not a _ton_ in the fridge. It’s better to space out the fresh ingredients, since we don’t know how long we’ll be trapped here. Also, I just didn’t feel like cooking yesterday.”  
  
“Well, you could’ve said it was an _option_ —”  
  
Potter raised an eyebrow at that. “And you were _so_ inviting of conversation at the time.” He must’ve seen the way Draco crumpled, because he let out a sigh and started again. “Look, Malfoy, it’s fine. It’s a frustrating situation to be in. But I’m going to make some eggs now, so just…just eat some, alright?”  
  
Draco considered refusing just for the sake of spiting him, but his stomach gave another torturous wrench, and he thought that if he waited any longer, he would almost certainly get sick when he finally _did_ eat. At last, he gave a weary nod and dragged his stool back to the kitchen island. There wasn’t an actual table—just this island/bar thing in garish linoleum.  
  
Potter seemed to relax a fraction at his acquiescence, and busied himself stirring the eggs. It was quite interesting the way he did it, too—with a spatula instead of a spell—and Draco found his eyes tracing the man’s movement rather subconsciously. After a few minutes, they were ready, and Potter spooned them onto a set of chipped plates before sitting down beside him.  
  
The action startled Draco—though he wasn’t sure what he expected, since there were only two stools. But eating breakfast next to Potter suddenly struck him as terribly intimate, and he coughed, scooting his stool away slightly before turning to the food and starting in. Merlin, he really was starving. In that moment, the eggs—though bland and slightly runny—tasted like the best thing he’d ever eaten. He devoured them without grace, unable to bear looking at Potter until after he was finished.  
  
He turned, opening his mouth to thank him until he realized how absurd _that_ would be and promptly shut it. _What was he thinking? Him and Potter_ hated _each other. Being trapped together and eating breakfast in the same room didn’t change things_.  
  
But if that was the case, Potter didn’t seem to have gotten the memo—since they had arrived, he’d been…oddly _nice_. Like they were just two chaps stuck in an unfortunate situation and should try to make the best of it, not bitter nemeses who’d had it out for each other since age eleven.  
  
It had to be a trap. Potter was clearly lying in wait for some show of vulnerability in order to take his revenge. If anything, his violent protestation of their partnership assignment had proven that beyond a shadow of a doubt.  
  
“Did you find anything in the books?” he asked when Potter too had finished. “Any clues, I mean?”  
  
Potter read his face for a moment before shaking his head. “Nothing. And I honestly don’t think we will.” He let out a breath, seeming almost hesitant all of a sudden. “You should…you should really sleep though. Your eyes are all bloodshot.”  
  
His voice was soft and almost bordered on _caring_ , which cut Draco deeper than anything he’d said so far. After all, no matter how nice Potter might be acting, Draco was still just some filthy Death Eater to him.  
  
“I’m _fine_ ,” he asserted, though, even to himself, his voice sounded reedy and weak.  
  
“Draco…”  
  
His head snapped up. “What did you just call me?”  
  
Potter threw his hands up, looking embarrassed and repentant. “Look, _Malfoy_ , I just think you really need some rest—”  
  
“Did you just—”  
  
“—or you’re going to _crash_ ,” Potter spoke over him. “And I would be an irresponsible partner if I let you drive yourself into the ground.”  
  
Draco let the name thing drop—with this level of exhaustion, he was honestly probably imagining it anyway. He let his head fall forward onto the countertop. “I’m _fine_ , Potter. And you don’t have to pretend like we’re _real_ partners anymore—it’s just the two of us here. It’s not like Robards is going to overhear.”  
  
“We _are_ real partners,” Potter responded, sounding a bit stung.  
  
Draco glanced up at him in surprise.  
  
The man was frowning at him with a serious look on his face. “And I’m not pretending. Yeah, our history’s a little rough—I’m not going to lie—but I like to think we’re working it out.”  
  
Now Draco was gaping at him. “Wha- _what?_ ” he managed. Because that had been about the last thing he had expected to come out of Potter’s mouth. “But…but you _hate_ me! And we’ve done nothing but fight every second we’ve been on cases together! What part of that is us ‘working it out’?”  
  
Potter scowled. “I don’t _hate_ you,” he said. Then, quieter, “Anymore.”  
  
Draco blinked for a few seconds in shock. “ _Pardon?_ ” he finally managed, because this really was just too absurd to be real now. Despite his best efforts, he must’ve fallen into a fever dream without realizing it.  
  
“And we aren’t fighting _every second_ —there have been some, er, _good_ moments too. Where we worked well together…even though it was usually by accident,” he trailed off.  
  
This was too much for Draco to handle—especially at this level of sleep-deprivation—and he ended up blurting out the one thing he often tried hardest to forget. “No—you’re _lying_. You _do_ hate me, and I know this because you _told_ me. If you _didn’t_ hate me, why on Earth would you have called me a _Death Eater?_ ”  
  
The comment hit hard—like intended—and Potter had the grace to look chastised by it. But he didn’t back down from it either, and after a long moment, he responded in a quieter voice. “I was mad, okay? I didn’t think that you had changed. I mean, I can see now that you _have_ , but I didn’t recognize it then.”  
  
“So…so it’s just fine for you to say that to me?” Draco asked rather pitifully, mind buzzing with confusion and resignation and hurt. “It may come as a _surprise_ to you, but it’s not something I really _enjoy_ being accused of.” Potter’s eyes were squeezed shut like this hurt him too, but he pushed on anyway. He had every _right_ to make Potter hurt. “And it’s true that that was part of my past—I don’t deny it—but to disregard any efforts I make in the present…well, that’s just hypocritical and _cruel_.”  
  
“I know,” Potter whispered, his eyes flicking open to look at him. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“If you’re sorry, why did you say it?”  
  
And at that, Potter huffed a weary sigh. “I guess I was hoping you’d prove me wrong.” 

  


**Two weeks ago**  
  
“—and here’s your office. Remember, no magical expansions—they mess with the integrity of the hallway. And there on the desk, you’ll see your first case.” Robards gave them a cursory once-over with a bit of leftover spite and turned to walk away. “Good luck, boys.”  
  
“Sir?” Potter asked quickly, a bit of panic tinging his voice. “Is that it? We just…jump in then?”  
  
The grizzled man narrowed his eyes. “Did you expect something different?”  
  
“Er, no. I mean, we don’t train with one of the experienced Aurors for the first case or—”  
  
“Potter,” Robards said sharply, “you’ve been training for the past two years. It’s time to put it to use on this case.” He departed for real this time, leaving the two of them standing dumbly in the cramped, windowless office space.  
  
After a long moment of silence, Potter turned on him. “Are you just going to be like that all the time then?”  
  
“Like what?” Draco snapped, though it lacked his usual vitriol. After their fight last week, he hadn’t felt the energy to argue with Potter in earnest. Nothing he said would matter anyway.  
  
He tried not to let the thought sting.  
  
“All subdued and quiet in front of Robards,” Potter replied, disgusted. “If we’re going to be partners, I could really use some backup.”  
  
“Is that what ‘being partners’ means to you? You go in, wand blazing, and the other person shuts up and does everything you say?”  
  
“It would be a damn sight better than this sorry arrangement,” he said, mouth pulling into a scowl. He toyed with the lamp sitting on the desk—an ancient thing with green glass and possibly a doxy infestation.  
  
Draco let out a long-suffering sigh and sank into the chair on the left. “You know, you would get further with Robards if you didn’t argue with him so openly. He likes the toughness, sure, but you often go far enough that he feels he has to punish you publicly—or he’ll lose face.”  
  
“Huh?” Potter eyes were wide, and he retrained his startled gaze on Draco. His fingers abandoned the lamp cord, and he looked a bit like he was seeing him for the first time.  
  
“I’m not trying to _help_ you,” Draco asserted quickly—though, he wasn’t sure _why_ he felt the need to explain that, because really, it was quite _obvious_ —“I just think it will make my own life more convenient if you know. After all, we’re going to have to report on our cases together and, generally, advance in the Aurors together. I won’t get anywhere if you’re here mucking up the basics.”  
  
Potter watched him warily, like he was laying the framework for another insult with this information. He sat slowly in the other chair across from him. “What are these ‘basics’ then?” He paused, thought it over, then added, “And I don’t go ‘too far.’ When have I gone too far?”  
  
Draco laughed humorlessly. “Almost every time you talk to him. This time specifically? By responding with anything but a succinct ‘Yes, Sir.’” He waited for Potter to deny it and start yelling at him. When he didn’t, Draco cautiously continued, “And the ‘basics’ are just that—basic common sense and social acumen. Be nice to people you need something from; don’t piss off your boss; make friendly with the forensics team, or they’ll make your job a living hell.”  
  
Potter frowned. “Sounds like being a Slytherin, in other words.” His eyes hadn’t left Draco’s yet, and he realized it had really been such a long time since they’d held such extended eye contact—possibly since the locker room incident. He was determined not to look away first, and yet he found himself doing it anyway.  
  
Potter’s stare made him uncomfortable.  
  
“Yes, well, there’s a reason Slytherins usually make it high up in the company structure,” he said, clearing his throat and glancing upon the unopened file before them.  
  
“Oh, other than the extortion and bribery, you mean?”  
  
He looked up to see that Potter’s mouth had hardened along with his voice. Draco let his gaze trace wearily back to the man’s eyes. They were bright and steely green, and he realized in an instant that Potter was trying to provoke him.  
  
_And they had been doing so well_.  
  
If this was a test, he wasn’t rising to the bait. Not this time, anyway. “Obviously,” he said calmly. “Glad you’re finally getting it.”  
  
The fire in Potter’s eyes fizzled, and it left him looking more wrung out and confused than ever. Draco didn’t blame him—he was feeling rather perplexed himself. He hadn’t known it was _possible_ for them to hold a conversation comprised of more than an exchange of insults. Even if it was spurred on by Draco’s defeatist self-loathing.  
  
For once, Potter was acting like he was actually willing to _listen_ , which had surprised him enough that he couldn’t help but answer civilly. And what was even more shocking than that was the _timing_ —why had this only happened _after_ Potter had reiterated his disdain? It would’ve made more sense for him to attempt a makeshift peace after the trials.  
  
It was definitely an anomaly and quite possibly a trap. All Draco knew for sure was that it certainly wouldn’t last. 

  


**Day 3**  
  
Draco had been so thrown off by their earlier conversation that he had agreed to “go sleep” as an excuse to be by himself for a while. He hadn’t really meant it, but the longer he thought about what Potter had said, the more he felt like he really was hallucinating or else caught in some fevered unreality that was a product of his subconscious.  
  
So he had settled onto the bed to rest—still not intending to actually sleep—but deciding he ought to lay down and relax a bit to recharge his battered body. He immediately fell into thoughts of their conversation. _Potter…didn’t hate him_. Or so he had said. He’d sounded earnest when uttering it, but it was a shocking enough idea that Draco wouldn’t pin his bets on it.  
  
_He also thought that Draco had changed_. That, more than anything, had taken him aback, because he certainly hadn’t seen any evidence of that particular revelation. And Potter thinking they’d had “good moments” or whatever? That was ludicrous too—filtering back through his memories of the past two weeks, he couldn’t recall anything but ambivalence, fights, and chaos. Most of their days had involved Potter stumbling face-first into conflict and Draco cleaning up the resulting mess.  
  
When had he made some groundbreaking realization during all of that? What had he seen that had changed his mind? Draco couldn’t expound why it bothered him so much, but perhaps it was just that he’d tried _so hard_ to make it happen— _for years_ —and here it was, the reason lost in some insignificant backdrop.  
  
What had it taken to make Harry Potter notice him again? _What would it take to become worthy of being forgiven?_

  


Draco woke a while later— _too_ long, if he presumed by the dark flickering of nighttime rain past the window. He startled upright into a sitting position. _How long had he been asleep?_  
  
Fuck. He hadn’t meant to sleep at all.  
  
He patted down his body, searching for secret injuries Potter might have inflicted on his person while he was out. Finding none, he felt he should’ve been relieved—but he wasn’t. He had been _careless_ , and who knew what Potter had been up to during this time? Draco had meant to blockade the door before he rested, too—which he had clearly forgotten. What if Potter had _come in_ at some point and seen him?  
  
His eyes fell on the bathroom door with dawning horror. He likely had. There was only one bathroom, and you had to go through the bedroom to get to it. Draco had been out a long time; Potter had probably come in to use it. Then he would’ve seen Draco, sprawled out on the bed, defenseless—and even if he _hadn’t_ done anything to him, he would’ve known he _could_. The thought made Draco’s stomach turn.  
  
He slid his feet onto the floor and fought a wave of dizziness that probably stemmed more from hunger than anything else. He’d only had eggs in the past two days, after all. But there was something else bothering him that he couldn’t put his finger on until he was standing in the bathroom and the feeling lessened slightly.  
  
_Merlin_ , he thought with a start. _The bed had smelled like_ Potter.  
  
The idea brought with it a sharp wave of panic, and he sniffed at his clothes and groaned. Fuck. _He_ smelled like Potter now. It felt invasive and disgusting and—again—terribly, terribly _intimate_. More than anything, he hated that it had lulled him to sleep by making him feel _safe_.  
  
Draco stripped his clothes off in a rush and practically leapt into the shower to wash away his confusion. He scrubbed himself down frantically, trying to drive the scent from his hair and skin.  
  
It was only at the end that he realized he’d been using the same bar Potter had rubbed all over _him_ self as well. 

  


Draco emerged a while later—after schooling his thoughts into some semblance of control (at least, as best he could manage)—in a clean set of clothes he’d found in the dresser. They were a bit loose on him, given that Samson had been a little shorter but stockier, and he tried to push down his self-consciousness at the ill-fit as he reasoned it was better than dirty clothes that still _smelled like bloody Potter_. And it wasn’t like he had to show off for his ill-dressed companion.  
  
Potter spotted him and sat up straighter on the couch to take in the change. He smiled a little, though hesitantly. “Feeling better?”  
  
“Er, yeah,” Draco managed, feeling oddly out of his depth after their last conversation. “Much.”  
  
“I’m glad.” There was a long silence.  
  
“Do you—” he asked, right when Draco opened his mouth to say, “When did you realize—”  
  
They both stopped and blinked.  
  
“You first,” Potter said at last. “What were you saying?”  
  
“I…well… Just. When did you realize you didn’t actually…erm, hate me?” He drew in a panicked breath. “Unless that really was some fever dream—”  
  
“No!” Potter said quickly, looking stunned. “No, I _did_ say it—that really happened. And I…hmm.” He chewed on his lip while looking to the side; he seemed startled to be leaping right into _that_. But he appeared to ponder it rather deeply. Merlin, he looked so at ease, spread on the couch with a book open on his chest. He was still in his standard-issue uniform, though he’d stripped off the outer red robes.  
  
“I mean, I haven’t really _hated_ you for a while. Since after sixth year, I think?” He licked his lips, glancing at Draco nervously. “I still didn’t _like_ you when we were in Auror training, but I also didn’t _hate_ you.”  
  
Draco considered that. At face value it sounded ridiculous— _of course_ Potter had hated him after that. They’d fought and traded insults and drawn the past as their weapon. What about sixth year did he claim had changed his mind?  
  
“If not hate, then what?” he asked, trying very hard to keep his voice steady. Merlin, he really was no better at this rested—he should just give it up and let it go.  
  
Potter lifted his head to look at him, brows furrowing. “I…I don’t know. But what about _you?_ I’ve told you loads more about how I feel about the situation. How do _you_ feel?” He swallowed, then rallied that Gryffindor courage Draco envied and resented. “About _me?_ ”  
  
“I don’t hate you,” he said, though he certainly hadn’t meant to.  
  
_What the fuck? Why had he said that?_ He _definitely_ still hated Potter—it consumed a significant portion of his time and energy, in fact. Was he subconsciously trying to make the situation less awkward—to gain the man’s favor?  
  
He wanted to think that was the reason—it would imply that he still held some iota of control over the situation. But if the swooping of his stomach at Potter’s look of warm surprise was any indication, he so totally did _not_.  
  
“You piss me off,” Draco said, clearing his throat to get his thoughts back on track. “ _Obviously_. With your complete lack of forethought, and your inability to enact simple social graces, and the way you’re probably going to get us _fired_ for arguing with Robards all the time, but…but I don’t _hate_ you. Anymore,” he added. And he didn’t feel like a liar when saying it, so he figured that was probably true.  
  
Which annoyed him—because, really? How fucking _good_ did the man have to be to get his arch-nemesis to stop hating him? He couldn’t just let _one person_ go on thinking he was a git? It was _obscene_.  
  
But he didn’t hold onto his ire long, as he was distracted by Potter’s stretching grin. Draco had never been the subject of that particular look, and he had to admit—it was rather blinding. “And when did _you_ realize it then?” Potter asked.  
  
And because Draco was still shaky and susceptible, he told the truth quite accidentally. “Just now.”  
  
Potter’s eyes widened. He studied Draco’s face until heat began to rise to his cheeks—at which point, he looked down at the floor and asked Potter, “What were _you_ going to say though? Before?”  
  
The man huffed out a laugh. “I was just going to ask if you wanted some food.” He smiled crookedly, and the effect was a bit dizzying. “Do you? I can make something.”  
  
“Yeah,” he murmured, just a little breathless. “Sure, just…no cans.” 

  


**One week ago**  
  
“Potter, _stop!_ ”  
  
“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” He ran in—wand blazing, as usual—and was sent flying by the invisible boundary that reflected his spell back on him.  
  
_Draco_ , of course, had seen the telltale violet shimmer in the corners of the room—hence telling Potter to stop. Naturally, he hadn’t listened; he _never_ listened. And now, Draco had to deal with his partner smashing into him from the air and toppling both of them to the ground.  
  
_Zing_.  
  
A curse flew over their heads, where they’d previously been standing, and Draco didn’t even have a chance to be cross that Potter’s ineptitude had just saved their lives before rolling to his feet and casting a stunning curse into the hallway behind them.  
  
He saw the man fall.  
  
“Get up, _get up!_ ” he hissed to Potter, who was still looking out of it. “I’ll dismantle the barrier—you cover the doorway!”  
  
For a terrible moment, Draco thought he was going to argue, but then Potter scrambled to his feet and peered around the corner with his wand prepped to duel. Heaving a sigh of relief, Draco turned to the barrier and began casting a series of complicated recognition and deactivation charms that began to slowly unweave the enchantments.  
  
He was nearly done when he heard a grunt and a crash, and he clenched his jaw hard enough to hear it pop. Had Potter gone down? Should he help him? If he looked away now, he’d have to start his spells over—spells that took three minutes of unbroken eye contact while performing—and he’d likely not get another chance. This artifact beneath the protective barrier was why they were here; it was the goal of their mission.  
  
But if Potter had gone down, there was no way they’d make it out. Draco needed another minute on the enchantments—at least—and if no one was protecting his back, then he’d likely be knocked out before he could secure the object anyway. Was it worth holding his post? Did he trust Potter to guard him?  
  
Indecision igniting fire in his veins, he continued casting—each second stretching out into an unknown eternity, possibly bringing him closer to an inconsequential end. He heard more grunting, then a crash and a clatter. And then— _finally_ —he heard the unmistakable uttering of his partner’s “ _Expelliarmus!_ ”  
  
Draco nearly melted with relief. Potter hadn’t gone down. He wasn’t going to die—not _yet_ anyway.  
  
The final enchantment shattered under his wandwork, and he levitated the artifact to his containment satchel. He didn’t even know what it _was_ , just that it had been stolen from the Department of Mysteries by a disgruntled former employee. Which meant it really could be anything.  
  
“I got it Potter—let’s _go!_ ”  
  
But it seemed the man had run out of easy compliance for the day, and he continued to duel and grapple with people as they came around the corner.  
  
“Potter!” he yelled again, because they really had done their part of the mission. “The other teams are sweeping the building—they have wards on every side. No one will be escaping. But _we_ have to _go!_ ”  
  
When his second attempt received no acknowledgement either, Draco grabbed Potter by the back of his robes and yanked him down the opposite hallway. The man scrambled for a minute in protest before finally turning and jogging along, eyes flicking back over his shoulder as they went—wand ready.  
  
With a few more turns, they reached another team of Aurors, and with a few more, they broke out into the bright evening light. 

  


**Day 4**  
  
Draco didn’t know what was happening, but Potter was acting indecently nice to him since he’d admitted that he didn’t hate him, and he’d even made Draco a meal (dinner? breakfast?) of eggs, beans, and toast—which he partook in as well, sitting far too close on a rickety stool. This might’ve caused Draco to panic a bit, only he was already so confused by their situation that it seemed he was in a perpetual state of panic, and it had actually become his baseline emotion.  
  
What did Potter _want?_ The question haunted him as he paged through another stack of books from the shelf—this selection on the history of Goblin communities in Russia. Today, he’d been trying to refocus on finding a way out, and since Potter had finally gone to bed, it was at last, mercifully, _quiet_.  
  
It was really hard to think, sometimes, when Potter was around. Especially—and this was a new development—because the man suddenly couldn’t shut up around him. Every time Draco had gotten into a rhythm of scanning through a book, Potter would invariably heckle him—asking him questions about house wards and barriers, tossing out theories of magical interference. He kept losing his place on the page, and it had grown infuriating. Quickly.  
  
And Draco _would_ have snapped at him, had he been clearer on the new rules under which they operated. If he told the man to “shut up,” would he go back to being the unfriendly prat from the precinct? Would he revoke his rescindment of mutual hate? It wasn’t that Draco was _worried_ , per say, but he also wasn’t looking forward to the inevitable breakdown of this truce. Now that he had seen what Potter was like without all the flat glares and biting comments, he’d come to the unfortunate realization that he would most likely miss it when it was gone.  
  
The storm raged on outside the window, and Draco found himself watching it as the shadows lengthened and retreated on the lawn. The wind chased stray leaves, and something like sleet fell in obfuscating circles. Soon, the light was filtering back, and he found he had no idea what time it was or how many hours had even passed, since they had neither magic nor Muggle clocks.  
  
Like the previous day, Potter rose not long after sunrise—only this time, appearing in a new set of clothes. Joggers slung low on his hips—not unlike the ones Draco had found, although _he_ seemed unbothered by the precarious fit—and a blue t-shirt clung to him where his skin was damp from showering. Draco had to stop himself from gaping.  
  
It wasn’t just that he had rarely seen Potter out of uniform (first, the school’s; then, the Aurors’)—though that was certainly part of the reason he felt so wrong-footed. The other part though…was that Potter looked _good_. Like, heart-stoppingly, mouth-wateringly _good_ —and Draco wanted to smash his head against a wall for even _thinking_ it. He could accept that he generally preferred men; that was something he’d come to realize long ago. But to entertain those kinds of thoughts about _Potter?_ He had never… it was simply _ludicrous_.  
  
It didn’t matter if the man looked like he was _made_ for casualwear. He looked more comfortable than he ever had in robes. And Draco found his eyes dipping, quite involuntarily, to that strip of smooth, brown stomach that Potter revealed while wiping the steam from his glasses.  
  
Draco had schooled his wandering eyes by the time Potter looked up, though he suspected he still looked slightly panicked.  
  
“Morning.” Potter grinned. “Did you read books _all night?_ ”  
  
Draco glanced down dumbly at the paperback in his hands before remembering that he _had_ —that he’d, in fact, _existed_ before seeing Potter’s abdomen—before his rapidly inflating existential crisis. “I, er…yeah.”  
  
And then Potter was laughing with exasperation and running a hand through his messy, wet curls. It was something so simple, and yet the sight hit him viscerally. Potter looked so saccharine and domestic in that moment that he felt his stomach twisting with something white-hot like guilt for being the one here to observe it.  
  
_This_ was the man everyone had come to idolize, he realized with a start. Not the one sneering back at him from across the Great Hall; that was what he had failed to understand for all these years. People idolized _this_ Potter—the man with bad plans yet kind eyes, who was messy in everything but his convictions. The man who grinned and laughed despite his past, who looked great in joggers and taught people how to use an electric kettle.  
  
The one who no longer hated him...  
  
Draco felt wretched.  
  
He wasn’t an idiot. He knew that these feelings weren’t coming from nothing—they’d been building inside him somewhere, folded into other places like “obsession” and “hate.” When had this started? How long had he been fooling himself into thinking he was anything but desperately attracted to Potter—how long had he been protecting himself from that hard, uncomfortable truth?  
  
His chest was clenching so tightly that he didn’t realize what he was doing until he was standing, nausea rising with him, and Potter was looking worried as he started past him towards the doorway. “Bathroom,” he murmured distractedly, and then he was slamming the door and falling to heave over the toilet.  
  
He hadn’t eaten enough. He’d eaten too much. His body felt detached from him, like some horrible breaking thing, and despite the abstraction, the sickness kept reeling him back in.  
  
His thoughts were racing, and this time, he couldn’t escape them. _How had he been so wrong about so many things? How could this be happening?_ He let out a strangled sob as a particularly cruel thought materialized.  
  
Oh.  
  
_Oh_.  
  
_So when he’d been angry about Potter’s inaction during training, it hadn’t been because the man was a hypocrite. He hadn’t hated that Potter had a thing for saving people. He was mad that he hadn’t been deemed_ worthy _of saving_. 

  


**Day 1**  
  
“Go over the details again,” Draco demanded, grabbing some vials from the cabinet to stuff in his pocket. He muttered darkly as he went, “I can’t believe I step out for _two minutes_ and Robards decides to call us in for backup. And between the two of us, he chooses to send his _patronus_ to _you_ —the one who has terrible recall and can’t take notes for shit.”  
  
Potter growled in protest. “I have _great_ recall, actually. And I _told_ you, this is that case that Smith’s team has been working for the past week. They’re currently closing in on Gerald Samson—the former clerk to the Department of Mysteries, who saw fit to steal several invaluable objects and sell them to the highest bidder after being refused a promotion—one of those objects, of yet undisclosed properties, we retrieved last week.”  
  
“At great personal risk,” Draco couldn’t help but mumbling. He was still sore from the stunning spells—not to mention Potter slamming him into the floor. “Go on.”  
  
“Robards just let us know that they’ve cornered him in an apartment building in Muggle London that he’s been hiding out in while he conducts the deals, and our team and Walter’s are to sweep the building for magical traps and other stolen goods he might’ve left behind. Samson himself is being apprehended as we speak.”  
  
“Then let’s not waste any more time. You have your containment bag?”  
  
Potter nodded, rolling his eyes. When dealing in objects of unknown properties or enchantments, it was an important thing to take along—though that hadn’t stopped him from forgetting before. _Twice_. “Let’s go.”  
  
They turned with a crack, appearing just behind the nondescript brownstone. Draco could see the anti-Muggle wards shimmering in the air surrounding the building, guaranteeing that they wouldn’t be noticed—come what may.  
  
With a nod to the team stationed outside, Potter spelled open the back entrance, and they slipped inside to start investigating each of the rooms. After several with no magical presences detected, Potter got brazen and ran headlong into an _incarcerous_ trap, which Draco mercifully freed him from (more annoyed by the blunder than anything). They saw Walters and Peterson on the second floor and agreed to split it up by level.  
  
After a few more traps that they dismantled—well, _Draco_ did anyway—they finally found their first trace of enchantments on the fourth floor. Potter was bumbling around with all the care of a drunken acromantula, when one of Draco’s wards pinged with a positive trace of spellwork. “Potter,” he said sharply.  
  
The man trailed over to where he stood in front of a battered desk. At his nod, Draco eased open the drawer, and an object streaked towards the open door.  
  
“Fuck!” he cursed, but the thing was too fast to grab. They sprinted into the hall after it, trying to hinder its progress. “ _Accio!_ ”  
  
Draco cast several more blocking spells—all ineffective—then turned to find Potter emerging from a previous room with an old set of brooms. “Here!” he called, tossing one to Draco—who, though unprepared, caught it with a deft grab.  
  
“You aren’t seriously _suggesting_ —”  
  
“Do you have a better idea?” Potter glared and boarded his broom. “Scared, Malfoy?”  
  
And that really was the limit, wasn’t it? “Piss off,” Draco muttered and jumped on his own.  
  
They flew low and fast down the hallway—a dangerous, _stupid_ thing for anyone to do—before they caught a glimpse of the red thing hurtling out an open window. Potter swerved his broom in a perfect turn, casting “ _Bombarda!_ ” just in time to blow a hole in the glass before he shot through it.  
  
Draco followed, cursing both Potter and himself as he went. Then they were flying outside, and for a jolting moment of déjà vu, Draco almost believed they were back on the Quidditch pitch. His eyes traced the arc of the object, and he pressed ahead without thinking—aiming his broom to exactly where it was arcing to come down, and all he thought was: _This time, I’m going to win_.  
  
Hand outstretched, he approached it in slow motion, noting—as he did—that it looked something like a dirty glove. A thought flickered in the back of his mind that he shouldn’t touch it with his bare hand—but Potter was already reaching out too, about to snatch it up and _win_ , and he surged the rest of the way forward to grab it.  
  
Their hands wrapped around it at the same time, and with a lurch, they were gone. 

  


**Day 4**  
  
Draco had stopped heaving a while ago—he’d thrown up the little he had in his stomach, then the rest had turned to bile—but he still hadn’t left the bathroom. He knew he’d been gone too long, that Potter would start to get suspicious, but he just hadn’t been quite ready to face him yet. Not drowning in regret and—now, that he was finally aware of it—a most shameful desire.  
  
He had been staring at the sink for maybe twenty minutes when he heard soft knocking. Slumped against the wall by the toilet, he found he didn’t have it in him to get up. “What.”  
  
Hesitation. “Are you alright?” came Potter’s muffled voice.  
  
_Merlin, he just couldn’t leave him to have his crisis alone, could he?_ “Fine,” he muttered.  
  
Another silence. “It’s just…you looked rather ill when you ran out of there, so I…I wanted to make sure you were okay.”  
  
Draco bit the inside of his cheek, harshly. He really didn’t need the reminders of how nice Potter was all the time. “Well, I’m fine.” His voice was flat—it was all he could manage at the moment.  
  
“Can I come in?”  
  
Potter just never stopped _pushing_. It was infuriating and presumptuous, and yet he somehow found it comforting nonetheless. Like maybe he did still care even after Draco had burned all the bridges.  
  
He didn’t bother to answer, and pushy Potter clearly took that as a yes, because then he was stepping inside and crouching down next to him. If he was disgusted by what he saw, he mercifully didn’t show it.  
  
“Are you alright?” he asked again.  
  
Draco merely twitched and turned his head away. Not that he’d been looking at Potter—he was far too ashamed of himself to even attempt to make eye contact. He heard the man shuffle, and then a shoulder was pressed to his. Draco tried to shift away, but he was right up against the toilet, and the warm pressure didn’t disappear. At any other point, he would’ve been horrified by the uncleanliness of where he was sitting. But right now, he couldn’t be arsed.  
  
“Why can’t you just go away?” he whispered at last. His tone wasn’t angry though—just _weary_ —and Potter seemed to understand that it was a genuine question.  
  
He let out a huff of breath. “Well, seeing as we’re currently _trapped_ , I don’t see how I can.” His voice turned amused. “But I thought you would’ve figured that out by now—weren’t you second in our class or something?”  
  
Draco shivered, partly from the fact that he had noticed, partly from that gentle, gentle tone that was unlike any of their previous teasing. He cleared his throat, but it felt sore, and he had to try several times. It still tasted like acid. “Yeah, I guess.”  
  
He felt rather than saw Potter smile, and he refocused on that warm contact on his shoulder that felt like it was growing steadily hotter. “It’s funny—I never noticed that you were a swot. But now, sitting around with the constant stack of books, I can totally see it.”  
  
Draco felt a flash of annoyance at the implication, but it felt good. It felt _normal_. Though distantly, he acknowledged that this conversation was anything _but_ normal. _Merlin, what was happening to him?_  
  
“I’m not a swot,” he mumbled.  
  
Potter knocked him lightly with that shoulder. “Anyone above _fifth_ is definitely a swot. I don’t think I ever got above twentieth.”  
  
“That’s because you’re crass, and you refuse to read a paragraph if it’s longer than three lines.” The words just rolled out of him, without any heat, and he wondered in earnest where they were coming from.  
  
Then, Potter surprised him again. He _laughed_. Not sarcastically, not meanly—just a short, honest laugh. And the way his heart stuttered, Draco knew he was screwed.  
  
“Maybe,” Potter said. “Or maybe I just never had the time to study.” The reasons, of course, went unspoken.  
  
Draco swallowed, feeling oddly compelled to keep the conversation from descending in that direction. “I don’t think it would’ve made a difference. You were always more interested in athletics than academia.”  
  
Potter laughed again, though this time sounding almost like he had startled himself with it. “Why Draco, is it possible that you just complimented my Quidditch skills?”  
  
_There was that name again_. His _name, sounding so provocative from Potter’s lips_.  
  
“I didn’t say you were _good_ ,” he muttered, sure, now, that he was blushing. “Just that you preferred it.” He tried to shrug, but his shoulder was still fused to Potter’s burning-hot one.  
  
He didn’t mind as much as he should’ve.  
  
Potter hummed a noncommittal noise, then smirked—Draco could see it in his peripherals. “And you would know all about it—the things I preferred. With the amount of _watching_ you did and all.”  
  
“I… I mean…” Draco spluttered, snapping his head to face him in panic. At Potter’s amused expression though, he propelled himself to his feet and started brushing off his knees. “Oh, fuck you. You stalked me all through sixth year.”  
  
“That I did,” Potter agreed, standing now as well. And Draco turned to gape, because he hadn’t really expected that kind of admission at all—in fact, he was about to ask about it further, when Potter blindly continued on. “And now we’re Auror partners. Life is unexpected sometimes.”  
  
“Yeah,” Draco murmured, catching Potter’s eye by mistake, then looking away. He realized, with sudden clarity, how disgusting his mouth felt. And the rest of him, really. “I’m going to take a shower now, I think.”  
  
Potter stared at him for a minute before lurching back into action. “Right. Of course. I’ll just be…out there then.” He shot him a quick smile before disappearing back into the bedroom.  
  
Draco closed the door softly behind him and pressed his forehead against it for a long moment before turning back into the room. “Right,” he said aloud to no one. “Right.” Then, at last, he began to strip down and reached in to start the shower. 

  


**Day 1**  
  
“What the _fuck_ was that?” Potter asked, broom falling to the floor with a clatter. He spun in a tight, panicked circle.  
  
Draco eased himself into a sitting position from where he’d crashed onto the coffee table. “Clearly, it was a _portkey_ ,” he replied, unmotivated to hide the disdain in his voice. After all, if it weren’t for bloody _Potter_ and his stupid, harebrained _schemes_ —  
  
“I know _that!_ ” Potter yelled, still spinning to take in their surroundings. “I meant, _where the fuck_ are we?”  
  
“As if _I_ would know that! I was just following _you_ —otherwise I never would’ve come up with the idiotic idea to grab an unknown magical object with my bare hand!”  
  
“Why _did_ you then?” Potter shouted, turning to him with a dangerous light in his eyes. “If my plans are so patently terrible—why follow me?”  
  
“Because you-…” _dared me_. “Because we-…” _are supposed to be partners_.  
  
He didn’t have the honesty to say either, so he said nothing at all. Instead, he made a frustrated noise and drew his wand to cast a location-mapping charm.  
  
Nothing. Where usually he felt the telltale buzz of magic, his wand felt empty. A hollow, common stick. “ _Fuck_ ,” he groaned with sinking dread. “No, no, no! This _can’t_ be happening—are you _kidding_ me?”  
  
Potter must’ve sensed the real desperation in his voice, and he drew his wand in alarm. A few flicks proved that he, too, couldn’t use magic. “Shit,” he mumbled distantly, like his mind hadn’t quite caught up with the situation. “We’re stuck, aren’t we?”  
  
Draco glanced around and saw a house with no doors. The walls were tight, the furnishings Muggle, and outside, a bolt of lightning illuminated a cataclysm of a storm. 

  


**Day 4**  
  
Though he certainly felt _cleaner_ after washing the bathroom grime from his body—and the sour taste from his mouth—Draco couldn’t claim that the shower had been _relaxing_ or left him even marginally at ease. His realization about Potter was still blazing in his veins, paired with that soft conversation, and his previous discovery with the soap left him feeling both excited and ashamed as he laved it over his body.  
  
_This soap has touched Potter everywhere_ , he thought. And though, physically, it made him clean, his thoughts felt unforgivably _dirty_. He imagined it trailing across the dip of the man’s ribs and stomach, sliding up his chest, then down to a perfect, heavy prick. His mind lingered there for a moment, then slid with the hand around to his arse—picturing Potter’s. How the soap would run slick and smooth down those cheeks, how he would dip it between those absolutely luscious globes, almost roughly—he liked to imagine Potter’s hands as rough and sure, after all. He saw them stroking, teasing, pressing-  
  
_Fuck_. He needed to stop this. He was half-hard already and growing, and he was _not_ going to wank about someone one wall over without a lock on the door. This wasn’t fair—up until now, he’d avoided thinking about Potter in this way, but now it was all he could bloody see.  
  
Draco endeavored to finish up quickly and emerged into the bedroom in a towel not too long after, searching through the dresser until he found a new set of clothes to change into. This time, it was joggers and a purple jumper that was slightly overlarge—not too different from what he’d scrounged together last time, but he no longer wanted to wear clothes he’d vomited in.  
  
When he walked out into the living room, Potter glanced up and sucked in a breath. “That’s-…I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in purple.”  
  
Draco hoped his sudden flush was lost in his body’s post-shower heat. “Yes, well, it’s what I could find,” he said brusquely.  
  
Potter’s eyes darted from the jumper to his face. “I didn’t mean… It looks nice,” he said eventually.  
  
Draco’s jaw might have dropped.  
  
“Anyway,” Potter continued, more loudly, “did you want something to eat? I was thinking of making something. I could…show you?”  
  
It was different than his previous offers, and Draco considered it for a moment. “You want to show me how to cook like a Muggle?” he asked carefully.  
  
Potter shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I mean, if you want to. Or I can keep cooking everything—it’s not like there’s anything else I should be doing.”  
  
“No, I-… That’d be nice.”  
  
Potter glanced up at him, looking shocked. “Really? I mean…cool! Sure. Let’s see what we have.”  
  
They both stared at each other for a minute before Potter leapt up, and Draco followed him into the kitchen to take a look in the humming cupboard. To his surprise, the air inside it was _cold_. Fascinated, he ran his fingers along the shelf on the door, wondering how it worked without a cooling charm.  
  
“So it looks like we’ve got a few peppers, some onions, oh—I think I see some tomato sauce in back. If there’s pasta somewhere, we could make that… What are you doing?”  
  
Draco looked up to find Potter laughing at him. He withdrew his hand quickly. “N-nothing,” he snapped.  
  
Potter snorted again, this time biting his lip as if to keep from laughing more. It made Draco’s stomach flip a little. “It’s called a _refrigerator_ , you know,” he said as if explaining to a child. “They keep things _cold_.”  
  
“Shut _up_ —I knew that!” he said, though it was most definitely a lie. “ _Of course_ I knew that! Why wouldn’t I know that?”  
  
“Ri-ght,” Potter replied, drawing out the vowel with a lazy grin. “Anyway, is pasta okay? It seems we have the fixings.”  
  
“Sure. Yeah. Whatever,” Draco responded. Anything to get Potter to _move_ so he wasn’t lingering so close to him.  
  
He did, but when it didn’t instantly cure Draco like he had hoped, he tried to focus on serious things—like the sanctity of his _job_ —in order to keep his eyes off Potter’s rear while he rummaged for an appropriately-sized pot. _How had he never noticed it before?_ He’d been watching the man for years now—just never put two and two together apparently.  
  
“You sure you’re good? No need to push yourself.”  
  
He must’ve been making some consternated expression, because now Potter was giving him that worried look again. He forced out a long exhale and willed himself to relax. He’d dealt with Potter’s presence for most of his life—he could handle it now too. Even knowing what he did at this point.  
  
“I’m fine. Feeling much better.” He picked up an onion that had been set out on the counter. “Does this go…?” He gestured towards the pot of water that Potter had placed on the stove before fiddling with the dials.  
  
The man snorted, then tried to hide it behind his hand.  
  
“You’re laughing at me again,” Draco said, deadpan as he could muster. If he could just stay cool about it, then maybe Potter wouldn’t delight so much in embarrassing him.  
  
“No,” Potter chuckled, taking the onion from his hand. “I’m not—I swear!”  
  
“Either you’re deranged, then, or I should remember that your word means absolutely nothing. Likely _both_ , actually.”  
  
Potter rolled his eyes with a grin. He pulled a knife from the rack and a large wooden cutting board from beneath. Then, with practiced strokes, he began slicing it from the top, side, then finally, perpendicularly. It fell apart into evenly-sized cubes.  
  
Draco gasped. “How did you do that? Show me again.”  
  
Potter raised his eyebrows a bit, but pulled another smaller onion from the refrigerator. “You want to learn? Here, take the knife—I’ll guide you.” Then, without any warning, he was leaning in behind Draco, wrapping his hand around his wrist.  
  
Draco tensed, back straightening to its full height as his mind processed what was happening. _Potter was_ touching _him. Willingly_. He tried to memorize the feel of that warm, calloused hand on his wrist, his heart racing—and he only prayed that Potter couldn’t hear its unwieldy thrum.  
  
“What do I-…?” he asked finally, gesturing with the knife and thrilling at the way Potter’s grip tightened slightly to still him.  
  
“First, you cut off the ends,” Potter said quietly. He didn’t need to talk loudly; he was so bloody close. Potter dragged their hands to the proper position, and, without resistance, Draco made the obliging slice. One end, then the other.  
  
Potter guided the knife to the middle of the onion. “Cut it in half.”  
  
He did that too, hoping his hand stayed steady. “With all the time he spent brewing potions, he was _good_ at dicing things—he only hoped his distracted body didn’t prove otherwise.  
  
“Now, peel off the top layer.” Potter’s voice was a soft murmur now and far too close to Draco’s ear. The breath tingled warm and pleasant on his skin.  
  
He shivered, then immediately cursed his body for its betrayal. With careful fingers, he peeled the outer layer off the onion, discarding it to the side. “What now?” His voice was slightly uneven.  
  
_Did Potter even know what he was doing to him?_  
  
He likely didn’t, because his next move was to reach his other arm around Draco’s waist to pull the onion half into position. Merlin, he was practically _hugging_ him—he was standing so close, and his arms were on either side of him. If Draco just leaned back-  
  
But he wasn’t _going_ to lean back. That would be atrociously presumptuous of him, and if rejected, would leave him utterly humiliated. Which, when they were stuck in a small house together, was strictly _not_ an option.  
  
And he absolutely _would_ be rejected. It wasn’t like Potter was _gay_ —and even if he was, he was also a _hero_. Heroes didn’t dally with ex-Death Eaters in any capacity. Any friendliness he was showing now was clearly built on the civility needed for their work relationship, and it would be foolish to mistake it for anything more.  
  
Beyond that, they were _Potter and Malfoy_. It didn’t matter how far they had come; it didn’t matter if Potter no longer hated him. Some things could just never change _that_ drastically.  
  
Draco felt Potter’s hand guiding his once more, and he jolted back to the present as the man whispered, “Alright, cut there.” Then, a slight repositioning. “Now there.”  
  
Potter led him smoothly through the rest of the lines, though partway through, Draco felt his eyes begin to burn. “Shit. Hold on.” He swiped roughly at the tears beading in his eyes, mortified at what was happening. _Was he so much of a sap that Potter’s mere_ touch _brought him to tears?_ Fucking hell.  
  
Potter’s hands retreated, and for a terrible moment Draco thought that it was because he _knew_ —that the man had realized what he was thinking about and was repulsed. Though, a second later, he glanced up to see that Potter was actually wiping tears away from his eyes as well. He nearly collapsed with relief.  
  
“Yeah,” Potter laughed lightly, “that tends to happen, too. But it’s worse if they haven’t been chilled.”  
  
Draco cleared his vision enough to see Potter somewhat, and when he did, his heart began to thunder in his chest. The man was utterly adorable. Red-rimmed as his eyes were, it only emphasized the brilliant green that now shone with unshed tears. His glasses were off, and he was smiling loosely, like this happened all the time and yet still exasperated him. Like he wasn’t humiliated to be crying in front of Draco.  
  
Again, that feeling of blissful domesticity all but decimated him. It was just so fucking _pleasant_ —and yet the knowledge that he could never have this for real hurt more than any insult that’d been hurled at him.  
  
His arm reached out involuntarily, and he came to his senses in time to snatch it back—because, really? Had he _really_ been about to try and wipe tears from Potter’s face? He’d surely have been hexed on the spot.  
  
Draco turned back to the onion and finished the last few cuts, following the previous pattern. Like Potter’s, it fell into neatly-formed cubes, reminding him of dicing doxy eggs. A job well done.  
  
Potter leaned down to view his handiwork and hummed a bit in appreciation. “Oh—looks like you got the hang of it then.” And he was probably just reading into it, but he could’ve sworn that Potter almost sounded disappointed.  
  
Draco grabbed a pepper to prepare—though, mainly, just to do something with his hands. Cooking had been a mistake. His emotions were too fragile right now, he realized.  
  
_‘Crying at Potter’s touch.’ Merlin. This infatuation would surely be the end of him_. 

  


Draco, as it turned out, had made another terrible mistake by getting roped into a several-hour conversation about Samson and the case—followed by going through another stack of books with Potter sitting next to him on the couch—and by the time he realized what he _should’ve_ been doing instead, it was already far too late.  
  
He was in the middle of skimming a passage on “Jareth the Goblin King”—whom, for all his history lessons over the years, he’d never even heard of—when he felt his eyelids begin to droop. _It’s been a long day_ , he thought, and it was only Potter’s yawn that jolted him back into wakefulness.  
  
_Hold on_. It felt long, because he’d _never gone to sleep_ this morning. His face froze in an expression of startled realization.  
  
Wait. How had that even _happened?_ He’d been tired after his nightly research—he’d been planning to turn in as soon as Potter had gotten up, and then…  
  
Then Potter had _distracted_ him, as it were. He had used his Gryffindorish “let me help you” gimmick, and Draco had fallen right into his trap. And after they’d had a decent pasta meal together, he had felt far too amicable about the whole situation to refuse Potter his much superior insight about the case—and all of that had led him to the dilemma in which he was currently entrenched.  
  
_Maybe it would be fine_ , Draco reasoned with himself. _Maybe he could just go to sleep right now, and Potter could stay up a bit later until he was done. There was no reason he had to_ —  
  
Potter let out another huge yawn. “Well, I think I’m ready to turn in for the day.”  
  
Draco couldn’t breathe for a minute.  
  
The world was falling out from under him.  
  
“ _H-what?_ ” shot from his lips as his mind struggled to reconcile “huh” with “what the fuck is wrong with you; there is clearly a huge issue here.”  
  
Potter gave him an odd look. “Bed. I’m going to bed.” His lips quirked with amusement. “Y’know, that thing that most humans do every sixteen hours or so?”  
  
Draco sucked in a long breath. “Right.” _Right. Well, he’d gone without sleeping for a while before, so he’d just have to do that again. It wasn’t ideal, but nothing about this situation was ideal to begin with. He’d weather it_.  
  
But Potter—only turning observant at the worst bloody times—couldn’t help but saying, “You should sleep too. You’ve been up a long time.”  
  
“No,” Draco said immediately, shooting to his feet with sudden energy. “No, I’m fine—I’m… I’m just going to make myself some coffee!” He promptly tripped over the pile of books that he’d stacked by the couch on his way to the kitchen, undoubtedly making a fool of himself. Whatever. This was no longer about being “smooth”—it was about _survival_.  
  
He filled the kettle with water and slammed it on the base with a click. In the subsequent moments, he tapped his foot so loudly and repeatedly that he didn’t even hear Potter come up behind him.  
  
“I could take the couch, is what I was going to say,” he said, and Draco jumped about a foot. “Woah—easy.”  
  
“ _You_ …just…” he sputtered at the counter. “I’m _fine_.”  
  
“Draco, look at me.”  
  
And because he was _weak_ when the man used his given name like that, he turned around to face him. His eyes flickered hesitantly over Potter’s face then darted away, unable to maintain eye contact. “What.”  
  
To his confusion, Potter leaned in closer and forced him to meet his gaze. He held it for three terribly long seconds before saying, “Just like I thought—your eyes are all bloodshot again. I… I didn’t mean to keep you up.”  
  
And Draco could feel his face flaring with unmistakable heat, because Potter couldn’t just casually say things like “ _I didn’t mean to keep you up!_ ” It was… _suggestive_ —and Draco cursed himself for even imagining it that way.  
  
“It’s fine,” he croaked.  
  
But Potter still wasn’t pulling away, and worse, he was still _looking_ at him—his eyes tracing a hot path down Draco’s cheekbones to his lips. Then back up again. “Really. I forgot you’d been up all night. But you should get some rest—you weren’t feeling well anyway.”  
  
_Up all night? Salazar’s tits. It was like he was doing this on purpose_.  
  
“I’m…I’ll be fine after I have some coffee,” he tried.  
  
Potter shook his head with a dismissive gesture. “That’s not going to help, and you still need sleep.”  
  
“Why are you-…” _so concerned with my sleep schedule?_ He wanted to ask, but really wasn’t prepared for any answer he might get.  
  
Potter ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up in odd directions. “Look, I’m…” he paused for an uncomfortably long moment and sighed. “I’ve said it before, but I’m not going to attack you in your sleep or something, so…”  
  
His lip was pouty like it pained him to repeat this, but he really wanted it to be clear. Draco’s chest squeezed at the sight, because that wasn’t really it—not anymore at least. After today’s conversations, he seriously doubted that Potter would attack him. But it’s not like he could say what the actual problem _was_.  
  
“I know that,” he said at last.  
  
Potter’s head snapped up. “You do?” His eyes were wide and innocently surprised. “Then why won’t you—”  
  
“I’ll sleep,” he said—because it was either that or confess. “But _after_ my coffee.” He was still a stubborn bastard, after all.  
  
Potter blinked a bit at that, but finally backed away when Draco stepped around him to pour his drink. If he thought it odd that Draco was drinking caffeine before sleeping—which he no doubt did—he thankfully didn’t voice it. As it was, he waited in polite silence until Draco had finished before speaking again.  
  
“I’ll take the couch,” he repeated, like the conversation had never fallen into this strange interlude at all.  
  
And normally, Draco would only be too eager to reap the benefits of someone else’s martyrdom—but somehow, when it was _Potter_ , he felt rather compelled to refuse on principle. Also, he didn’t exactly relish the idea of another night spent enfolded in Potter’s intoxicating scent. “No, that’s quite alright. You take the bed— _I’ll_ take the couch.”  
  
Potter frowned a little, pushing his glasses up on his nose. Perhaps no one had ever turned down his self-sacrifices before, because he quickly returned with, “No. You’ve barely used the bed since we got here—it wouldn’t be fair. I’ll take the couch.”  
  
Draco, by now a little irked that he had to keep fighting for the clearly _lesser_ option, set his mug down with a definitive click. “Yes, well, I’m telling you I don’t _want_ it. Just take the bed, Potter—hero perks and all that.”  
  
But that comment only served to solidify Potter’s determination that it would be _unchivalrous_ for him to take it, or some rot. His eyes flared, and he met Draco’s gaze with a stubborn light that was all too familiar. “And I’m telling _you_ that I don’t _want_ it either. Also, it wouldn’t be very ‘heroic’ of me to take the bed when you look ready to pass out from fatigue!”  
  
Draco gasped. Had Potter really just called him _fatigued?_ One of the classic ways of telling someone they looked _bad?_ “I…I can’t _believe_ you! Just take it, Potter—I’m not _asking_.”  
  
“What are you—” Potter scuffed at the back of his neck in frustration. “Well, at this rate, we’ll both end up sharing the couch! Is that what you’re after, then?”  
  
Draco’s breath was knocked out of him and replaced with a flush.  
  
“I’ll take the bed,” he said immediately, standing to end the conversation as quickly as humanly possible. If he moved fast enough, maybe Potter wouldn’t see his face. “Merlin, you’re infuriating.”  
  
He thought he heard a faint, yet triumphant snort as his answer. 

  


**Day 5**  
  
Draco woke, warm and comfortable and drowning in Potter’s scent and…sticky. The sheets were _sticky_. He didn’t get a chance to experience the full horror of this particular situation until after he’d picked up his wand from the nightstand and flicked it in an irritable _scourgify_ —which had absolutely no effect.  
  
He sat up. Glanced down at the navy-blue sheets that showed no mercy in hiding his body’s latest betrayal, mind reeling. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_. How was he supposed to get rid of this _without magic?!_  
  
_What did people even_ do?  
  
Draco stared, transfixed, for several world-shattering minutes—thinking it really couldn’t get any worse, that this was the climactic end of his otherwise pitiable life—when he heard footsteps approaching the door.  
  
_No. This couldn’t be happening_.  
  
In panic, he shot out of bed and began tearing the sheets off. His foot caught in the fitted sheet as he yanked it up off the floor, and he tumbled onto the mattress with a _whump_. He had just managed to stand again and scoop them up into a tangled ball of linens when the door opened to reveal a sleepy-eyed Potter in bare feet. The man stared at him for a long, perplexed moment before shaking his head blearily.  
  
“Draco? What are you doing?”  
  
He fought the insane urge to scream. Instead, he clutched the sheets tighter to his body—thank Merlin they were also in front of his stained crotch—and wracked his mind for a lie. It didn’t have to be _good _, it just had to be _existent_.  
  
“It’s…it’s long past the time that these sheets needed washing!” he began, thinking desperately for a follow-up. “And…and normally that would be done with daily charms, but seeing as we don’t _have_ those, we’ll just have to figure it out the inconvenient Muggle way! I mean, we can’t let this imprisonment turn us into slovenly miscreants, can we?” Draco let out a rather hysterical laugh to cover his cringe over using the word “miscreants” under duress. “Unlike you, I plan to start the day off _right_.”  
  
Potter’s eyes had widened dramatically throughout the babbling speech, and now he looked rather like he regretted coming in to use the bathroom. “I…I suppose,” he said at last. “But…it’s been, what? Four days? How often do you _normally_ wash your sheets?”  
  
_Thank Merlin and Morgana—the lie was taking!_ Draco met Potter’s eyes with the most fervent persuasion he could muster (which, in retrospect, was probably more alarming than convincing), and gritted out: “Every. Day.”  
  
Concern warred with confusion on Potter’s face, until he eventually seemed to give in to the idea that rich people lived in an extravagant, incomprehensible reality in which it truly was necessary to change sheets every day. He shrugged, and Draco didn’t even care that the lie made him look spoiled as shit—he just wanted to rejoice for his clever avoidance of the real, unnamable travesty here.  
  
Up until Potter reached out his hands and said, “Here, I can throw them in the wash for you then, if you want?”  
  
“No!” Draco yelped, retreating a step before he could think how to react.  
  
Potter’s eyebrows shot up his forehead.  
  
Draco clutched the sheets tighter and cleared his throat in panic. “No—I mean…er…I want to learn how to do it _myself_.”  
  
If possible, Potter’s brows rose even higher. “You…want to learn,” he repeated slowly, “how to work a Muggle washer and dryer?”  
  
“Yes!” Draco exclaimed. “Obviously—that’s what I said, isn’t it?” His face was flaming, he knew—he could never bloody stop it when he was embarrassed. “Think of it like a cultural exchange!”  
  
Potter analyzed him some more, seeming as lost as Draco himself was by this explanation. “But there’s no exchange? We’re not doing wizarding things right now, and I know them by now anyway?”  
  
Draco turned away sharply, realizing he’d been staring into Potter’s eyes for far too long. “It’s a _saying_ , just-… Merlin, Potter—just show me how to use it. _Please_.”  
  
The last word came out without his express permission, and he regretted it the second it did, as he saw Potter’s face slacken into shock. Fuck. He’d never been desperate enough to say “ _please_ ” to him before. And he’d rather _die_ than do it again.  
  
Potter jolted into action. “Erm, right.” He turned, leading them out into the kitchen where he opened a small, barrel-like metal device and gestured towards it. “You put the sheets or clothes in here, set it to this—” he cranked several knobs that Draco would have to examine more closely later, “—add some detergent here, and then press this button.” He pulled a bottle of some viscous blue substance from the cupboard and filled a small tray before nodding to him.  
  
“Okay,” Draco breathed, shoving the bundle into the washer and closing the door. “This here?” He pressed the button with a satisfying click. “Right…er, thanks.” Hesitantly, he glanced up to gauge Potter’s expression, but the man wasn’t looking at his face.  
  
He was looking at Draco’s _pants_.  
  
His heart stopped in his chest. Draco shot to his feet, scrambling to turn away, but not missing the way Potter’s throat bobbed in a rather obvious swallow. All this and for _nothing_ —he’d been so close to getting away with it too. But now Potter _knew_ ; he could easily surmise about the sheets—  
  
“Shower,” he said. “I’m going to shower.” And he rushed off before Potter could make a single comment.__

____

____

  


When he emerged a while later in a towel, he was startled to find Potter in the bedroom. The man was sitting on the sheetless bed and looking a bit uncomfortable.  
  
“Potter? What are you doing in here?” He tightened his grip on the towel, flushing as the man’s gaze flitted over his pale, scarred chest. But then he was on his feet, racing towards him—then _past_ him. “What are you—” he started to repeat.  
  
“Gotta piss, sorry,” Potter replied.  
  
The door slammed behind him, and Draco took that moment to pull some new boxers and yesterday’s joggers on, as he slowly realized that Potter had burst into the room this morning _on his way to the bathroom_. Which he hadn’t gotten to do before Draco stormed off to use the shower.  
  
_Urghh_. He’d been terribly inconsiderate. His face pinkened with shame.  
  
Potter emerged just as he was throwing on a jumper, and Draco patted his hair down self-consciously as he mumbled, “Sorry—I didn’t… I forgot you had to use it.”  
  
The man stopped in his tracks for a moment before looking away and saying, “It’s fine. No worries.” He looked a little red himself. “I think I’m going to take a shower now too though.”  
  
Draco tried not to get a headrush at the unprovoked image in his mind. “Right,” he said. “Enjoy.”  
  
Potter looked at him sharply, and Draco’s eyes widened at what he’d just said. _Merlin, he was such an idiot. “Enjoy”—how the hell was Potter supposed to interpret_ that? The air was already heavy with whatever Draco may have “enjoyed” last night to wake up the way he did. He grabbed a pair of socks and booked it out of the room. 

  


**Day 6**  
  
Today had started much better than yesterday at least—Draco had woken this morning warm and comfortable and aroused, but thankfully _not_ having come all over his sheets in the night. It was a small mercy that Potter had been too stubborn to take the bed again last night (Draco had offered to switch), because he at least had the privacy of a closed door this morning, rather than being out in the open of the living room.  
  
He attributed his luck to no longer sleeping in an ocean of Potter’s scent.  
  
When he got up, he had performed his usual routine: shower, find new clothes, watch Potter cook, etc.—though, by midmorning, the awkward silence was compelling enough to get him to agree to some childish game Potter had made up in which they each had to come up with interesting statements about themselves. No questions—just freely-offered information.  
  
For people like them, that was almost revolutionary.  
  
“I’m not crazy about soups and stews. My aunt and uncle made me cook a lot as a kid, and that’s all I could figure out how to do for a while, so it’s always got that association for me.”  
  
“Hmm, but have you ever had a good lobster bisque?”  
  
Potter snorted and gave him a withering look. “That’s not a statement.”  
  
“Oh, _excuse_ me.” Draco rolled his eyes. “ _I’ve_ had many delicious soups, stews, bisques, and gazpachos over the years, so I’m sorry to say I don’t share the sentiment. However, I’m not overly fond of liquorice myself.”  
  
“Oh, does its dark and bitter nature feel too much like cannibalism then?” Potter quipped.  
  
Draco laughed once, then quickly schooled his features into a frown. “Now who’s asking questions?” Potter looked suitably mollified, so he continued. “But no, I’ve never liked it—even when I was a sweet, innocent, _perfect_ child.”  
  
Potter raised his eyebrows like he had something to say, but seemed dedicated to revitalizing the game, because he merely replied with, “I don’t really know what kind of child I was—my aunt and uncle hated me.” He said it bluntly, with both a hint of amusement and a tiny undercurrent of sadness.  
  
Draco fell silent. It was vastly different than what they’d been discussing so far—favorite foods, favorite brooms, rumors about former classmates—and he found he wanted to know more, but had no idea what to even say.  
  
He cleared his throat. “Why— I mean, _I don’t understand_ why they would hate you,” he rephrased carefully. It technically wasn’t a question, but it inspired elaboration, hopefully.  
  
Potter looked up at him, a little startled. “I…er… Well, they weren’t great people,” he admitted. “They’re Muggles—as I’m sure you knew—but that’s not _why_ …just… My aunt, you see, she didn’t ever really get over the fact that her sister had magic and she didn’t. And my uncle, well, he just doesn’t like anything outside the ‘norm.’”  
  
He met Draco’s eyes a little frantically, and he realized that Potter probably didn’t talk about this often at all. He’d never heard anything in the papers about the man’s blood relatives beyond that they were Muggles. It was strangely humbling to hear all this from Potter’s own lips, when he certainly didn’t owe Draco anything—much the opposite in fact.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. “Did they— I can’t imagine they treated you very well if they held those stances.” He worded it as cautiously as he could—the slightest slip-up, and Potter would close off again, he knew.  
  
The man heaved a telling sigh that made his chest squeeze in sympathy. “No,” he said. “They did not.”  
  
It was a long time before he spoke again.  
  
“I think I was eleven? The first time someone even hugged me?” He glanced up suddenly, eyes nervous. “And I’m not saying that to be dramatic! It’s just…a fact.”  
  
Draco tried to wipe the blatant shock from his face. _He’d_ never _been hugged as a child?_ His chest felt hot and tight as he processed that information.  
  
“I didn’t think you were,” he said softly.  
  
“It was Hagrid, by the way,” Potter went on, with another glance at him. “Which I’m sure explains some things about _our_ first meeting.”  
  
Draco’s gut wrenched. It _did_ explain something—it explained what a _dick_ he had been to Potter that first day on the train. How insulting Hagrid had set him off beyond what Draco had expected. No wonder the cards had fallen how they had. _Merlin, the boy hadn’t been hugged until age_ eleven? It was unthinkable, really— _criminal_ even. And so far off what he had believed—both as a kid and now.  
  
He leaned forward in his chair, wishing there was something meaningful he could say to comfort Potter. He almost wished he’d sat next to him on the couch so that he could lay a hand on his shoulder or something.  
  
“I…I assumed you’d had a spoiled childhood,” he admitted, unable to meet Potter’s eyes. “When we first met, that’s the way I imagined it.”  
  
“I know what you assumed. You weren’t the only one.”  
  
“I just… I just wish I had known. I’m sorry, Potter. Maybe I would’ve acted differently.” He grimaced slightly. “Though, perhaps not. I have no delusions about what kind of child I was.”  
  
The corner of Potter’s lip curled up. “What, the ‘sweet, innocent, _perfect_ ’ child you were?”  
  
Draco huffed out a laugh that was more air than sound. “Merlin, Potter—I was being _facetious_.” He ran a hand through his hair distractedly. “And that was a _question_.”  
  
“Okay, fine. Well, I’ve just spilled the details of my sordid past—you need to give me something here. Tell me a secret.”  
  
Draco’s breath caught. _A secret? What should he say?_ The first thing that came to mind was a question—and those broke the singular rule of this game. But it was all he could think of. He’d just have to rephrase:  
  
“I’d like to know why you did nothing about the bullying.”  
  
Potter inhaled sharply and sat straighter on the couch. “ _That’s_ your secret?”  
  
Draco nodded. _It wasn’t the most pleasant of topics, he knew, but Potter had already steered them away from the safer ones._ “I think about it often. I’d really like to know.”  
  
The man slumped back into his seat, nodding vaguely. “Fair. That’s…fair, I guess.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead and closing his eyes. “I… Merlin, this sounds horrible—but I didn’t think you wanted me to? To do anything, that is. Since I thought you still hated me, I had this idea that you would’ve hated receiving my help more than the actual bullying itself. Maybe that was wrong of me, and I let our past get in the way.”  
  
He leaned forward, steepling his fingers in front of his face. “But, if you want me to be truly honest, you should also know that I thought you were joining the Aurors just for the sake of saving face, and your animosity didn’t exactly disprove that theory. So yeah, it was a bad thought—I admit it—but part of me felt that you deserved it.”  
  
Draco inhaled shakily and his eyes fluttered shut for a moment. His stiff posture remained unbroken though—he had braced himself for whatever impact Potter’s words would inevitably have.  
  
“To be frank, Draco, I’d spent a good deal of my life watching you and hoping you’d do the right thing—and by the time we joined the Auror program, I don’t think I was ready to handle any more disappointment.”  
  
_Oh_. Those words hit like a hex to the chest. He let out a breath and tried to hold in the tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. Tears of shame.  
  
When Potter remained silent long enough that Draco knew he was done, he tried to gather his thoughts enough to respond. “I…” he swallowed and tried again. “I _did_ join the Aurors to save face. Primarily, at least. But not for my family, just… for me this time. I just wanted people to know I didn’t think those things anymore—that I was putting in the effort to change things.”  
  
He glanced up to gauge Potter’s reaction, but the man’s eyes didn’t give anything away other than interest in what he was saying. _Alright. He could do this—he could say the rest_. “And the animosity… well, I just felt…” He looked around the room for inspiration—anywhere but Potter’s eyes. “I just felt _resentful_ , I guess, that I was the one exception to your martyrdom. That you would save anyone—” _Merlin, why was he admitting this?_ But in the moment, it felt _vital_ that he did.  
  
He locked eyes with Potter. “—anyone at all…except for _me_.”  
  
Potter looked completely thunderstruck. “You…you wanted _me_ to _save_ you?”  
  
Draco’s resolve crumbled under pressure, and he looked away with a petulant “No!” Then, a sigh. “Well…yes—perhaps a little.” He knew he was blushing again, and he hated himself for it. “Not as an obligation though—not like it actually had to be successful—just…just, I didn’t want to be treated like a stranger.”  
  
He closed his eyes. He should stop—it wasn’t like he was under _veritaserum_ ; he certainly didn’t _have_ to disclose any of this. But if there was the slightest chance that it would prevent their slip back into old habits and hostility when they returned home, then he would try to take advantage of it. Wedge his remaining shards of earnestness into Potter’s image of him, so he’d be harder to write off.  
  
“I’ve never thought of you as a stranger.”  
  
Draco opened his eyes, heart flipping in his chest. “No?”  
  
Potter quirked a small smile. “That’s still technically a question. But no—and I don’t think I ever could.”  
  
He simply stared, hope building cruelly in his lungs. “And what do you? Think of me, that is?” It was another question, but he didn’t care.  
  
Potter glanced at him, surprised, before slipping into a slightly wry expression. He heaved a long sigh that descended into a self-deprecating chuckle. “Well, for what it’s worth—I _did_ want to save you. I wanted to, and I didn’t even know why.”  
  
And Draco didn’t even argue that he hadn’t actually answered his question—but only because he had forgotten how to think after hearing those words. 

  


**Day 7**  
  
It was odd how a single week—rather short in the span of a lifetime—could shift a power dynamic so utterly and drastically. In the beginning of this mess, Draco recalled that’d he’d felt both the desire and the _capability_ to hex Potter into an untimely death by stair-vanishing, and yet now—now it took less than a word, less than a _glance_ , for Potter to absolutely murder the logic and fine motor-control than made up _Draco’s_ very person.  
  
Were he given a working wand and an opportunity to duel Potter right this second, he probably wouldn’t be able to muster more than a pitiable tripping jinx, so jumbled were his thoughts—he’d been _that_ thoroughly manipulated by the man. And the worst part was, Draco wasn’t even _angry_.  
  
He’d felt a lot of things for Potter in the past several days, but “anger” had somehow faded into the creased lining of “embarrassment,” which had then morphed to softer, horrifying feelings like “safety” and “contentedness.” Ultimately, it all culminated in “madness”—because falling in love with Potter was clearly the maddest thing he’d ever done in his life.  
  
There was no hope for anything between them. They were nemeses; they were _partners_. They were _Potter and Malfoy_. And yet, somehow, in the course of the past few days, they’d been acting more like “Harry and Draco”—though he hadn’t dared to actually call Potter by that name.  
  
But. Just when he’d convinced himself to crush these feelings deep inside, he’d glance up to find Potter looking at him gently. Or they’d be cooking, and Potter would smirk and hand him an onion and say “You’re better with a knife”—something that made Draco feel both flattered and _dangerous_ , but in a mysterious and skillful way for once rather than a shameful one.  
  
And that was the thing—Potter made him feel like a _normal person_. Granted, a pretentious and somewhat sheltered one, as the man had no qualms in pointing out, but normal nonetheless. Potter made fun of him for forgetting to plug in the toaster or fussing over his hair in the bathroom or setting out a full set of cutlery when it was just the two of them dining. He didn’t make fun of him for things like the Mark—and it wasn’t like he’d forgotten it; despite his best efforts, he knew Potter had gotten several glimpses already.  
  
It wasn’t until he had someone like that in his life again that he realized he’d been missing it for so long. And, given the circumstances, it was something he knew he would miss bitterly once all of this was over.  
  
Draco sighed. He glanced up from his book to watch the storm through the window. Today it was sparking through the usual sheets of rain, and he found a strange sense of comfort in its reliability. If he was truthful, he’d grown fond of the storm—the honest tumultuousness in the midst of a world that usually hid its chaos beneath the surface. In numbered forms and covert glances, in courtroom machinations. When chaos danced across the sky all around him, he needn’t go looking for it.  
  
“Anything new out there?” Potter asked. He rummaged through a cupboard and hummed his satisfaction when he found what he needed.  
  
Draco glanced over at him. He had flour in his hair, dusting those thick black curls, and a smear of chocolate streaked from his nose to his cheekbone. _Fuck, he looked delicious_.  
  
“Nothing out there. In _here_ , however…” he broke off, raising an eyebrow at Potter’s current appearance. “What are you making?” He tried his best to make his voice come out normal—a tinge disdainful even—instead of soft and breathy like he suspected it would. His heart had taken to fluttering inconveniently whenever the man smiled at him like that.  
  
“A surprise,” Potter tossed over his shoulder, bending to look through the glass of the oven.  
  
This time, Draco didn’t even try not to stare.  
  
He’d been indulging himself in fantasies of forgetting the reality back home and letting loose to just confess or kiss Potter. It was totally delusional on his part, he knew, but it didn’t keep him from imagining a different ending to moments like this—one where maybe he stood and went over behind Potter and wrapped his arms around his waist. Of Potter leaning back into the touch, then twisting his head to catch Draco’s lips-  
  
“You’ll like it, trust me.”  
  
Potter’s statement broke him from his reverie, and his eyes snapped up as he realized the man had turned back to look at him. _Shit_. He had a questioning look about him suddenly, so Draco said the first thing that popped into his mind to distract him.  
  
“Let’s play the statements game.” _Maybe it would prevent Potter from asking him questions he wasn’t ready to answer_.  
  
But alas, though Potter looked a bit surprised as he nodded, he also set his jaw in that determined way that usually meant he wasn’t going to back down on something. Sure enough, not a moment later, he squared his shoulders and asked, “I’d like you to tell me why you keep staring at me.”  
  
_Fuck_ —what?!  
  
_Had Potter really just_ — Oh, this polite declaration was _much_ worse than answering questions!  
  
“Staring? Psh…” Draco tore his gaze away and fumbled with his book. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Potter.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“That’s a question,” he accused, pointing.  
  
Potter smirked, coming around the kitchen island to stare down at him with his arms crossed. “Alright, I’ll rephrase then: ‘I think you do.’”  
  
“Of all the _ludicrious_ —” Draco spat. “I was just trying to see what you’re making over there! You said earlier that it wasn’t a cake, and yet I saw you dump a bunch of cocoa powder into the bowl—what kind of chocolate-flavored confection is there other than cake? And I _know_ you’re too clumsy to pull off something like truffles or la bete noire—”  
  
“I think I heard a question in there somewhere,” Potter replied, eyes twinkling at Draco’s—admittedly poor—attempt to change the subject. “But no, it’s not cake, truffles, or whatever French thing you just said.”  
  
“And _I_ think you actually have no idea what you’re making,” Draco replied, visibly panicked now, and desperate to keep the conversation from looping back around. “Probably just threw a bunch of ingredients together and stuck it in the oven like a commoner.”  
  
Potter was biting his lip now to keep from laughing. “I was under the impression that commoners generally knew how to cook, since they don’t have elves to do it for them.”  
  
“I…” _Okay, that was fair_. “Well, no one ever said you were as skilled as a _regular_ commoner.”  
  
Harry just quirked a brow at that, and Draco crossed his own arms and looked away with a huff. _Alright, it wasn’t a_ great _insult, but he was doing his best here_.  
  
Potter took an unexpected step forward, and when Draco realized he was planning to sit next to him on the couch, he shot to his feet and paced to the window to feign interest in scenery.  
  
“Draco,” Potter called.  
  
“What?” he answered without turning.  
  
A pause. Amusement: “I can’t tell if you’re even trying at this point—it’s unlike you to pick a game that you’re bad at.”  
  
Draco laughed, somewhat shakily, still facing the window. He pressed a palm to the pane, grounding himself in the cool feel of glass against his skin. “I’m not trying. Otherwise, you’d have lost already.”  
  
He heard a snort. “It’s not a game of ‘winning or losing.’”  
  
“ _All_ games are about winning and losing.”  
  
“Then tell me how you plan to win this one.”  
  
Draco whirled around, because Potter’s voice was suddenly so _close_ —practically whispering in his ear. And once he’d turned, he realized it was because Potter _himself_ was unbearably close. The careful distance he’d maintained for the past few days had been shattered, and Potter’s lean, solid form stood only inches away from his. _And his scent_. That intoxicating blend of skin and sweat and whatever fruity shampoo the man used that had yet to fade over the week he’d been without—it permeated the air like a seductive warning.  
  
His back knocked into the window, but the retreating step had only gained him a few measly inches—a distance Potter quickly erased with another step of his own. Then, he was leaning into his space, hand braced in the same spot on the window that Draco’s had been moments before.  
  
“Tell me what you consider a ‘win’ in this situation, Draco,” he murmured, voice low and compelling.  
  
Draco drew in a breath. “I…I—” The moment drew on, his eyes lost in an ocean of green, heart jackrabbiting within.  
  
And then an alarm was buzzing, shrieking metallic bells on the counter, and Potter drew away with a hiss of frustration. “Fuck, the brownies—”  
  
He ran over to pull something out of the oven, and it wasn’t until Draco had broken free of his proximity that he felt his body sag from the release of tension. And also felt a tad bereft. He’d been standing at the edge of his inhibitions, about to jump and now...  
  
“Try some—it’s…ow ow ow, still hot!” Potter reappeared in front of him, with a chunk of something cake-like in his hand. “Here.” He stretched out his arm, and then his fingers were brushing against Draco’s lips, a warm chocolatey scent enticing him to whatever he was holding.  
  
Draco opened his mouth in shock or to protest or—…he didn’t _know_ what. But regardless, Potter took that opportunity to slip the confection past his lips, lingering a second too long as he let go, and…  
  
_Salazar, it was delicious_. It was fudgier than cake, and he could taste the butter crisping the outside crust. What had Potter called them—brownies? Whatever. They were his favorite thing now. Anything hand-fed to him by Potter was his new favorite thing.  
  
_This had to mean to something. Potter was always hugging and slapping at his friends, sure, but_ this _was not like that. It couldn’t be—he refused to believe it was_.  
  
He opened his eyes and watched Potter draw in a sharp breath. His fingers still hovered in front of Draco’s face, and so—before he could chicken out—he grabbed Potter’s wrist to steady it, then leaned in to lick off the crumbs.  
  
Potter gasped. Draco’s eyes darted to his face to take in the dark, swelling pupils and high flush upon his cheekbones. Merlin, he looked good enough to _eat_ —and if the sweetness of his fingers was any indication, perhaps the rest of him would be equally delicious.  
  
This was ridiculous. _Why wasn’t Potter kissing him yet?_  
  
He’d been brave—he’d returned this wordless flirtation tenfold. If Potter hadn’t opted to abandon reality yet, Draco would do it first. He was so tired of wanting.  
  
He yanked on the man’s captive wrist, pulling him close enough that he could wrap his other hand around the nape of Potter’s neck. Then, at last, he could close the distance.  
  
His lips pressed against Potter’s, molding to their warm, soft curves, and for a second, nothing existed but those lips. They were gentle and firm and _safe_ in that way that he’d been forcing himself not to think about—not to hope for until now. And it felt absolutely perfect.  
  
Potter jolted into action. Perhaps he was inspired by the small groan Draco couldn’t keep from escaping or the hand Draco slid up to fist the hair at his nape, but Potter reached out to clutch his waist, pulling him closer while at the same time backing him into the window. With a firm grip on him now, it gave the man reason to kiss him harder. His mouth fell open, and then their tongues were tangling, hot and passionate and still tasting vaguely of chocolate.  
  
After a minute, Potter drew back for breath with a somewhat dazed grin. “So? Did you like it?”  
  
_Was he talking about the dessert or the snogging?_ Either way, the answer was the same. “ _Yes_.” This time, he couldn’t help that it came out breathy. “Your baking is divine, Potter—now shut up and kiss me.”  
  
Potter’s eyes crinkled as he laughed, that expression that simply stole Draco’s breath away. “Well, it looks like I’m not a _regular_ commoner after all,” he said, brushing a thumb over Draco’s cheek.  
  
“Oh _please_ —” Draco started, but then his sarcastic retort was cut off by Potter capturing his lips in another heated kiss. The man buried his fingers in Draco’s hair, licking and nipping until his legs felt like jelly, and he was fairly certain he would collapse in a crumpled heap if Potter moved away just now. He _did_ break the kiss, but only to drop his head to Draco’s neck and suck at the exposed skin by his collarbone.  
  
“Fuck, I love it when you say ‘ _please_.’ It’s only ever happened twice.”  
  
Draco flushed, hackles raised at his memory of the first instance. “Shut _up_ ,” he said, kissing him savagely and flipping them so _Potter_ was the one pressed against the window. He covered Potter’s mouth with his own and channeled a year’s worth of frustrations into the kiss, resulting in a punishing intensity. His fingers dragged down Potter’s chest and caught upon his hips. With a groan, he pulled them against him, slotting a leg between Potter’s so that he felt a tantalizing pressure riding against his upper thigh.  
  
He drew back enough to see Potter’s long, starry lashes eclipsing evergreen eyes. Lightning flashed in the sky behind him, tonguing his cheeks with ethereal luminescence. It cast long shadows from the harsh line of his jaw, the rounded apple of his cheekbone.  
  
He was beautiful.  
  
He was _dangerous_. Potter’s face broke into a wild grin, and a crack of thunder underscored the feeling of something inside Draco breaking. Perhaps it was the last of his inhibitions. Perhaps it was his ability to live a life without knowing what Harry Potter felt like beneath his hands. His ability to live without Potter, _period_.  
  
This union was dangerous because it was volatile—completely unknown, uncertain. The depth of that uncertainty cut through him like a knife, and even that—lodged as it was in his throat—wasn’t enough to keep him from leaning back in to kiss Potter again. If anything, the transience of the moment made him all the more desperate to wring out every last sensation he could.  
  
Draco drew a thumb across Potter’s cheek, wiping away the smear of batter. He hesitated with his hand in front of the man’s mouth, and Potter eagerly closed the distance to lick it off. Then suck it. _Merlin_ , he drew Draco’s entire thumb into his mouth and was lapping at it with all the sensuality of a blowjob.  
  
Draco braced his other hand on Potter’s shoulder, because otherwise the powerful shock of arousal that went through him might’ve brought him to his knees. “Potter, _fuck_ …”  
  
The man drew off with a pop. “ _Harry_ ,” he commanded. “Call me _Harry_.”  
  
Draco let out a low whine as Harry ducked his head to take his index finger into his mouth next. “Fuck, _Harry_ …”  
  
The lustrous green of his eyes had been all but subsumed in black, and he made a low noise in the back of his throat at the name. Then he was pulling off of Draco’s hand again and pulling him back into a fierce kiss.  
  
Draco wrapped his palm around Harry’s neck, drawing him closer, still-wet fingers wending in unruly hair. It was the hottest thing he’d ever experienced, and he rolled his hips against Harry’s with a groan. He needed to get closer; he needed _more_.  
  
“Say it,” he panted against Harry’s lips. “Say _my_ name.”  
  
Harry glanced up to meet his eyes, his own hooded and intense. “ _Draco_ ,” he whispered. He dropped a kiss to Draco’s neck. “Draco.” Nuzzled the sharp corner of his jaw. “Draco.” Caught his earlobe between his teeth. “Draco.” Exhaled in a way that sent shivers down his spine.  
  
He felt himself melting into the touch. Merlin, if he died, he wanted to die like this—worked down to putty by Harry’s undivided attention. Part of him _wanted_ to die right here, so that he wouldn’t have to come down from the insurmountable height of this high. He wouldn’t have to deal with anything coming after—anything that might contrast this fathomless, nameless bliss.  
  
“Harry,” he whispered back, hoping it would urge the man to continue. He was sick to death of dancing around each other—of chasing down Harry’s attention only to reject it out of fear. This was what he wanted. He wanted to live in the reflection in Harry’s eyes, the continuous susurration of Harry’s lips forming his name.  
  
He wanted to live and die in this moment.  
  
“Draco.”  
  
His gaze came to meet Harry’s, while he pondered the weight of that thought. He disentangled their bodies, the other man snagging his wrist to pull him back until he saw Draco lowering to his knees. Then his breaths became quick.  
  
“Oh god, Draco. Are you…?”  
  
Instead of answering, he tugged at Harry’s waistband. The joggers slid down rather easily under his touch, reminding him of all the stretching and slouching that had sent them alluringly low on his hips the past couple of days. He swallowed, attempting to bury his newfound desperation in controlled movements.  
  
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had cause to say this before,” he murmured, “but you were _made_ for casualwear.”  
  
Harry huffed a laugh that morphed right into a strangled groan when Draco exposed his cock to the air and grabbed it. “You say that, but you don’t even _know_ what your joggers have been doing to me this week, Draco.” He accentuated the words with a shiver, like he meant it, too.  
  
Draco paused, lips only inches from Harry’s prick. His desires were torn, but curiosity won out. “What do you mean?” he asked.  
  
Harry whined with frustration, head thumping back against the glass. “ _You_. You wearing those all casually like this isn’t the first time I’ve seen you in anything but full, formal robes! It makes you seem like—” he broke off, blushing brilliantly and looking away. Restarted. “Makes me want to peel them off of you.”  
  
Draco leaned forward and took him to the root.  
  
Harry shuddered and cursed as he drew back slowly, running his tongue along the hard length. “Draco! Draco, _fuck_ …” His words fell to syllables, fell to moans, fell to breaths that got stuck in his throat. Harry’s hands clawed at Draco’s hair, anchoring him in the smooth, bobbing motion. They tugged with gentle confidence, and the quiet possessiveness turned Draco on like nothing else had in his life.  
  
He wanted to _belong_ to Harry. Maybe not in the most literal sense of the word—but he wanted Harry to want him like that. As something to keep around.  
  
Draco dropped open-mouthed kisses to the underside of his shaft, and Harry groaned, thrusting his hips out to chase the sensation. His cock was flushed and full, brown skin coated with a sheen of Draco’s saliva, and he’d never seen anything so beautiful before.  
  
“ _Draco_ …”  
  
He took him deep once more, one hand fondling his balls, while the other gripped him tightly by the arse. Harry was letting out ragged, aborted breaths now, the sound stuttered by the clench and flex of his jaw. Draco felt a sharp tug on his hair, and when he didn’t pull off, he saw Harry’s eyes snap open.  
  
Their gazes locked, and Harry came.  
  
The orgasm rippled through his body, tensing first his grip, then his abdomen, then the small muscles around his eyes. And then he was moaning, shuddering weakly in Draco’s solid arms, and finally sagging boneless against the wall.  
  
Draco swallowed with something like reverence, feeling strangely humbled that Harry had let him do this. As if the intimacy of taking part of Harry inside of him had finally marked him as an equal. He sucked one last time at the softened tip and smiled when Harry yelped at the sensitivity.  
  
“That’s it,” Harry said, huffing a laugh. “Your turn.” He pulled Draco to his feet, and then, instead of adjusting his tangled clothes, simply stripped them the rest of the way off.  
  
Draco’s eyes went wide. If he hadn’t already been painfully aroused, he certainly would’ve been after seeing the glory of a fully naked Harry Potter. His body was perfect—all lean muscles and sensuous curves—and the smattering of scars only seemed to make him sexier somehow. It was even better than what he’d taken to picturing.  
  
Harry must’ve seen the undisguised lust on his face, because he smirked, turning coyly and calling “Come on!” over his shoulder while giving Draco an unhindered view of his arse.  
  
He raced to follow him into the bedroom.  
  
Draco had expected to tumble right into bed, so he was therefore surprised when Harry pulled him into a long, languid kiss and began undressing him slowly in the middle of the room. He pulled off his jumper first, ducking back to rejoin their lips the second it was off. Then, he tugged at Draco’s waistband. The joggers slid off easily, loose as they were, and he kicked off his socks without breaking the kiss. Then it was just him in his pants, pressing himself into Harry’s maddening touches.  
  
Harry pulled back an inch to smirk at him as he latched his thumbs in the remaining piece of clothing and drew it down with clear relish. Draco held his breath as he gingerly stepped out of them. He felt more naked in front of Harry than just his nudity accounted for.  
  
But the man’s smirk had slipped into a sort of awed smile as he took Draco in, and he pulled their bodies flush with a soft nibble at his ear. “You’re beautiful,” he breathed.  
  
Draco’s body broke into gooseflesh as Harry trailed warm fingers down his side. The touch was soft but sure as it worked around to his front. It dipped, dragging lightly through his pubic hair, but stopping short of actually brushing his cock.  
  
“ _Harry_ ,” he whispered, “that’s not fair.”  
  
Harry pulled back from the crook of Draco’s neck where he’d been planting kisses. His grin had regained its hint of mischief. “Isn’t it?” He licked into Draco’s mouth with an ease that made him groan. “Consider it payback for the way you’ve been teasing _me_.”  
  
Draco made a little choked sound as Harry latched onto his pulse point. “What…what are you _talking_ about? I just _blew_ you.”  
  
Harry chuckled and ran his fingers gently over Draco’s nipples. “Yeah, well, I’m not talking about just today.” His voice was raspy and low. “I’m talking about you strutting out of the shower in nothing but a towel. You watching me all those times you thought I wasn’t looking. You waking me up with your gasping, followed by a sudden need to ‘wash the sheets.’”  
  
He kissed Draco squarely, holding him close with a fistful of hair. “You’re driving me crazy.”  
  
Draco couldn’t hold back a small sound of surprise, and then he was dragging Harry’s lips back to his and kissing them until they bruised. He fell back a step, feeling the bed hit his calves, and he pulled Harry down on top of him.  
  
A thought rushed through him then—something Harry had said earlier. He licked his lips nervously; he wondered what Harry would do…  
  
“Please,” he whispered. “Harry, _please_.”  
  
The effect was instantaneous. The man’s eyes widened a fraction, then darkened significantly. Pupils drowning out the green. “Please _what?_ ” He rose to his elbows, giving himself room to observe Draco with that intense, fiery gaze.  
  
“ _Touch me_ ,” he breathed. Then added another “please”—because now that he’d said it once, he might as well say it again. It was worth the blow to his pride if it drew that hungry look from Harry’s eyes again and again.  
  
“Draco… _fuck_.” Harry reached down to grip him at last, hands sliding almost lazily up and down his length. “How do you want to do this?”  
  
Draco moaned, trying to focus through the haze of pleasure that was Harry _finally touching his dick_. “I…I don’t care. Either. Just…sweet Salazar, _don’t stop_.”  
  
But Harry drew in a sharp breath, and his hand _did_ pause as he did so.  
  
Draco hissed at the loss.  
  
“You mean…you’d let me fuck you?”  
  
The question was so earnest and surprised that Draco resisted the urge to make a biting comment about the man’s listening comprehension. “Yes—what do you need? A written invitation?” His face was burning. “Just _hurry up and get to it_.”  
  
Harry stared at him a moment in stunned silence before an enormous smile lit up his face. He startled into motion, shooting up and rifling through the nightstand before pulling out a container of lube.  
  
“I’m not even going to ask why you have that,” Draco muttered.  
  
Harry just grinned. “I didn’t _bring it_ —if that’s what you’re asking. It was here already.”  
  
“Oh, _stupendous!_ We’re using lube that belongs not only to someone else, but an _active felon_ ,” Draco babbled, barely suppressing a shudder. _Where did Harry get these ideas?_  
  
But the man in question only laughed and held it out for his perusal. “It’s unopened, you goose.”  
  
“ _G-goose?_ ” Draco screeched. “Did you just call me a—”  
  
“A goose,” Harry supplied. “Yes.” He leaned in and kissed him before Draco could come up with further protests. His smirk when he drew back was insufferable. “And you _are_. You’re showy, you preen, and you squawk indignantly if anyone comes too close.”  
  
“No, I _don’t_ ,” Draco squawked. “I—”  
  
Harry wrapped a hand around his dick again, and he found he couldn’t finish the sentence. “You?” the man prompted.  
  
“Get stuffed,” Draco growled instead. Then let out an embarrassing whine as Harry’s hand dropped to his perineum.  
  
Harry laughed heartily, stroking firmly until his humor faded back into lust. Draco watched his eyes darken again, fixing on the path of his fingers before roaming down his legs.  
  
He swallowed. Draco suddenly felt wrong-footed, like he wasn’t sure how to transition from their teasing back to openness. It felt terribly vulnerable—but Harry caught his eye and seemed to sense what he was thinking, because he offered a small, reassuring smile.  
  
“Can I?” He gestured towards the lube, and Draco nodded.  
  
He watched him pop the lid and coat his fingers, but it wasn’t until they were trailing along his crease that he felt a spike of anxiety. “Harry, I—”  
  
The man paused immediately.  
  
Fuck. He couldn’t bring himself to say he’d never done it this way before. “Just…it’s been a while, okay?” he settled on instead.  
  
To his relief, Harry let out a breath and nodded, smiling kindly again. “Of course. I’ll be gentle.”  
  
Something about Harry saying those words to Draco made him want to cry.  
  
“Right,” he said softly. Tried to gather himself before looking him in the eye. When he did, he felt the expressions were likely still dancing across his face, as Harry’s next move was to lean down and kiss him sweetly, lingeringly. Like a lover, not a shag.  
  
Harry continued kissing him like that—hand reaching down between them and slipping between Draco’s legs as he did. He felt a finger pressing into him, and Harry’s tongue distracted him from the initial discomfort until he finally relaxed. The finger started rocking into him, slipping in and out—building a steady pace, but not a harsh one.  
  
Before long, he found himself moving into the touch, angling towards that sensation that Harry had only just grazed so far. Catching on, the man sat back on his heels to press in slightly differently and-  
  
“ _Fuck!_ ” Draco back arched off the bed. “What the _fuck_ —”  
  
Harry grinned like he’d just won the House Cup. He carefully added a second finger, then returned to sliding in, working Draco open at a speed that was both forgiving and torturous.  
  
By the time he’d gotten to the third finger, Draco was ready to explode.  
  
“I’m fine…I’m _fine!_ Just do it already,” he groaned, breath catching as Harry brushed against his prostate.  
  
“Do what?” Harry asked—wide, innocent eyes betrayed only by a filthy twist of his wrist. “Did you need something more?”  
  
“Give me your cock, _you intolerable cur!_ ”  
  
Harry’s eyes lit up despite the insult, and he pulled his hand free to start slicking up the “cock” in question. Somewhere in the past few minutes, he’d gotten unfairly hard again.  
  
“Okay,” he said teasingly. “But only if you say it.”  
  
“Say _what?_ ”  
  
“Please.”  
  
“Merlin— _fine!_ I didn’t realize you had a kink for it. Just… _please_ , okay?”  
  
Harry laughed a little breathlessly. He lined himself up with Draco’s opening, nudging gently until his legs fell further apart. “I don’t have a kink for _it_ ,” he whispered. “I have a kink for _you_.”  
  
Draco was so shocked by that statement, that he hardly realized Harry was pressing in until he was seated deep inside him. Then he was groaning and clenching and adjusting to the way his body stretched around Harry.  
  
The man gasped, burying his face in Draco’s neck for a minute, then—slowly—lifting his head to kiss him as he canted in and out. The first stroke burned a little, as did the second, but by the time he’d fallen into a slow rhythm, Draco was aching for it—arching so that Harry could bury himself a little deeper with every forward thrust.  
  
He brushed the sensitive nerves, and Draco broke into an earnest string of “please”s that had Harry gripping him frantically by the hips for leverage. He angled himself and drove in fast, hitting the spot that had Draco writhing, panting against Harry’s lips because he was too far gone for kissing.  
  
“ _Please_ ,” he continued to whisper. “ _Harry, please_.” He didn’t even know what he was asking for, because, for once, he had everything he wanted. “ _Please_ —”  
  
And then Harry was reaching for him, and he came at his very touch. Came loudly and viciously, like something pulled from deep within him. He shuddered in Harry’s arms, each wave of his climax hitting him like a curse, aftershocks dancing across his skin like lightning.  
  
Harry pressed into his loose, formless body one more time, and then he was coming too—clutching Draco tightly at the ribs, slipping arms around his middle to pull him closer still. His face burrowed against Draco’s collarbone, and without thinking, he found himself winding his arms around Harry’s neck. Burying his hands in that messy hair and wishing he could stay like this forever. 

  


It was several hours later that Draco heard the noise. First, thunder...and then nothing. Silence. Silence that had long been driven out by the chaos of the storm. Then, vaguely—in the distance—voices.  
  
Draco sat upright in bed. This was it—they had come for them at last. The Aurors had finally found their position.  
  
There was a sound like a crack, and then the familiar surge of magic rushed into his veins all at once. He drew in a breath at its reassuring flow within him—a feeling that had been so integral to his being that he hadn’t realized how lost he felt without it until now.  
  
He reached out towards Harry’s shoulder, then stopped.  
  
Something was off—something was _wrong_. He shook his head blearily, trying to clear it enough to focus. The timing was too perfect. How else would they have known to show up _now?_ Mere hours after their coupling? Now that he and Harry no longer hated each other, now that they had taken the first step towards something new?  
  
It felt almost like it’d been _planned_.  
  
Draco’s breath cut off abruptly. _Was that what this was? Some kind of sick, twisted hazing?_ Some foregone case note the others hadn’t shared that spoke of a portkey, an opportunity?  
  
Nausea roiled in his stomach as he glanced desperately between Harry and the door.  
  
It was unlikely—impossible even! There was no way for the other recruits to have known. And Harry had seemed so genuine in his reactions; no one could lie as smoothly as that. Not even a psychopath.  
  
_But what if he had?_ whispered that nasty voice in the back of his head. _What if this was all some sort of game?_ Unwillingly, his thoughts fell upon the Harry in the showers three months ago. The cold, unfeeling gaze that had been leveled at him. The way he’d turned away. _What if this was all a play at revenge?_  
  
Case notes. Harry had been in charge of the case notes on Samson. What if he had decided, amidst the others, that he wanted in on the bullying? _Get his arse_ , they might have said, _Get him to trust you_. They could’ve devised a way for Harry to contact them after he had.  
  
If that was the case, then he shouldn’t be lingering. He should be getting dressed and greeting the team with a cool, haughty gaze. Collected—giving away nothing. Never admitting his pride’s wicked defeat.  
  
He almost swung his feet out of bed right then, but the gesture hurt him physically—like he was pulling his heart out by a thread. A thread tying him firmly to Harry.  
  
_Fuck_. If he did this—if he distrusted him now, in these tender hours following their lovemaking (and he could no longer claim that it had been anything else), then he would undoubtedly shatter everything they had built together. This past week, this past eon—all of the confessions and small triumphs that they had achieved would be lost.  
  
But if Harry was lying to him, then none of it would’ve been real to begin with.  
  
Draco slumped forward, head in his hands as the noises of spellwork outside the house grew louder. His head and heart were tearing him two different ways, and the consequences of either had the power to ruin him. Suddenly, he was back in the warehouse where he’d dismantled the wards—he’d been given the same choice. _Trust Harry or run_.  
  
Time was running out. Logic dictated that he should get up, that he should prepare himself for whatever cruel revelation was coming. He knew what would protect him; the world wasn’t in the habit of being kind. But he made the mistake of glancing down at Harry one more time. Harry, whose raven hair splayed messily across the pillow. Whose skin glowed soft and clear from the shower they’d shared in lieu of cleaning spells.  
  
Harry, whom he was definitely falling in love with.  
  
He heard the window shatter, and the time for decisions was past. Draco settled back under the covers with his heart hammering in his chest. This was probably the stupidest thing he had ever done. His only comfort was that it’d worked for him once already.  
  
He shook his head to clear the doubts and reached for Harry to wake him. 

  


**Three months later**

**HARRY** : …yeah, and after we grabbed the glove, we appeared in the house, and it disappeared. The anti-magic wards must’ve already been in place at that point, because we couldn’t use our wands.

**ROBARDS** : Yes, well, we have since discovered that the wards were created as part of the storm itself. The storm was actually created by one of the artifacts that Samson had stolen—a Tempest Orb. The Department of Mysteries have been experimenting with harnessing a person’s magical abilities into weather charms—in this case a storm that also forms a ward. 

**DRACO** : By ‘person,’ do you mean to say…

**ROBARDS** : Yes, Auror Malfoy. The orb actually harnessed yours and Potter’s magic to create the storm in the first place. Since it uses all of the magic within its bounds to strengthen the wards, you couldn’t cast while it was in effect. The anti-magic nature of the area within the wards also reduces the efficacy of location spells, which would’ve helped hide Samson’s position.  
  
[shuffling, an uncomfortable cough]  
  
With regard to the wards, I will also say that both of you have…not inconsiderable magical strength, so the subsequent _hurricane_ that my teams had to dismantle when they located you was inconveniencing to say the least. 

**DRACO** : [snidely] Terribly sorry about that.  
  
[POTTER laughs]

**ROBARDS** : Do you have something you want to say to me, Malfoy?  
  
[an uncomfortably long pause]  
  
I thought not. Anyway, the Department of Mysteries is glad to have the orb back where it belongs.

**POTTER** : [stifling his amusement] But sir—where was the orb even kept? We didn’t notice something like that in the house. 

**DRACO** : [mumbling] And we definitely scoured it enough times…

**ROBARDS** : It was in a hidden compartment under the floorboards. Not easily accessible, but one of you surely could’ve found it if you hadn’t been busying yourself with…[clearing his throat] _other_ things. 

“Draco? What’re you rereading that report for?” Harry leaned over his shoulder to look at the page, laughing when he did. “Are you…?”  
  
“Reading it for the entertainment value?” Draco smirked. “Definitely.” He flipped a few pages ahead in the thick stack of parchment. “I’m just getting to the good part, where Robards started interrogating us about the ‘unexpected developments in our personal relationship.’”  
  
Harry shook his head with a devious grin. “How did he put it?” He affected a deep, gruff persona. “‘I’m simply astounded by your combined lack of professional sensibilities’?”  
  
Draco snorted. “Among other things. My personal favorite is this—” He pointed to a particular line in the transcript. 

**ROBARDS** : [several distressed sighs, each increasing in volume] So you mean to say that through the ‘simple, communal activities you shared,’ such as ‘cooking, reading, and’…[shuffling paper noises] ‘—the unexplored joys of Muggle technologies,’ you just ‘started to _like_ one another,’ as you’ve noted in your report?

**POTTER** : Yeah, that just about sums it up! 

“Merlin,” Potter muttered, wiping mirth from his eyes. “I’m surprised he didn’t fire us on the spot.”  
  
Draco raised a brow. “Well he _couldn’t_ —though he certainly wanted to. It’s not _technically_ against the rules for Aurors to date, as long as they’re at the same rank. Besides, he also couldn’t describe our entire week of entrapment as one hundred percent ‘working hours,’ as it exceeds the maximum legal amount. It would get into a real legal grey space if he tried to define which hours were ‘working’ and which were ‘personal’ during a time like that.”  
  
Harry was grinning now, rolling his eyes fondly. “You’re still such a swot.”  
  
Draco huffed. “And _still_ your partner for some reason.”  
  
“And still your _partner_ ,” Harry added with a euphemistic wiggle of his eyebrows.  
  
“Yes, that too. Merlin knows why.” Draco clucked his tongue dryly. “We didn’t exactly have a smooth start, with the team of Aurors bursting into the bedroom to find us naked in a shared bed.”  
  
Harry’s eyes clouded in that fond, nostalgic way. “Smith looked like he was tempted to _obliviate_ himself a second later. I wish I’d had a camera.”  
  
“ _I_ wanted to _oblivate my_ self a second later too, because the situation was _mortifying_.”  
  
“C’mon, it wasn’t _that_ bad…” Harry paused for a moment and grimaced. “Okay, fine…it _was_ that bad. But we were in it together.” He raised an eyebrow at Draco, who had since come clean about his doubts from that morning. Completely unfounded, as it happily turned out. “Besides, what was truly _mortifying_ was finding out later that you’d never bottomed before, and you didn’t see fit to _tell me_ before I pummeled your arse—”  
  
“As if you had it in you,” Draco cut in with a teasing smirk. “Though now that I’m thinking about that night, I remember there was something you were going to say but didn’t… I remember it bothered me at the time. You cut yourself off before saying something when I mentioned casualwear.”  
  
Harry danced away into the kitchen again, about as subtle as a hissing dragon.  
  
“Harry? What were you going to say?”  
  
“Can’t remember.”  
  
“ _Harry_.”  
  
The man’s brown skin had heated to a rosy blush. “You’re such a prat,” he murmured. “Why’d you have to remember that?” He stirred a pot on the stove, clearly as an excuse not to look at Draco directly. “I had been thinking… Well, we’d been talking about clothes, hadn’t we? So I almost admitted that your comfy casualwear made you look like…like a _boyfriend_.”  
  
Harry laughed then, a little breathlessly—clearly embarrassed by the thought. “Not _my_ boyfriend specifically, just… like you’d be a perfect boyfriend lounging around the house and being all cute and domestic and shit. Reading on the couch…making dinner with me.”  
  
Draco smiled with amusement over his current pile of _reading_ at Harry _cooking_ in the kitchen. “Oh, so like what we’ve become now?”  
  
Harry glanced at him briefly, sending a small smile. “Yeah. A bit.” He blew out a breath. “Three months of interdepartmental politics notwithstanding. You’re right—it’s a wonder we made it this far.”  
  
Draco gave up on the reports and shuffled them into order again, laughing softly at that tremendous understatement. “Yeah, it’s not like Robards was _petty_ or anything, switching us to other partners for the next two months, until he realized that no one else could stand us. Well, _you_ really—no one could stand _you_.”  
  
Harry scowled, though his face twitched back into a smile when he couldn’t hold it more than a few seconds. “As if. They couldn’t take your constant nagging.”  
  
“They couldn’t take your _idiocy_ , Potter.”  
  
“Agree to disagree.”  
  
Draco sighed, disgusted at how fond he was of this oaf. The man was terrible at planning and self-preservation, in equal doses. He glanced at the pot again. “Anyway, what’re you making?”  
  
“Why, you want to cut the onions for me?” Harry teased, stepping over to ruffle his hair.  
  
Draco scoffed, covering the fluttering in his chest with an overdone grimace. “Maybe I just want you to feed it to me.”  
  
Harry’s eyes darkened a shade—that way they always did when Draco made a comment like that. He spent almost all of his time at Harry’s now, and still the man had yet to get tired of him. It had happened slowly, but the Diagon Alley flat had been gradually strewn with Draco’s things until Harry had finally transfigured him a dresser of his own.  
  
“Maybe I will,” Harry murmured, voice low. “But only if you say—”  
  
“‘Please’—I _know_. You just can’t get enough of it, you kinky fuck.”  
  
Harry smiled, utterly unashamed. “I’m making curry,” he said simply.  
  
Draco hummed his acknowledgement, suddenly more focused on Harry’s lips than his words. “Want to eat on the porch?”  
  
“Can’t. It’s raining—hadn’t you noticed?”  
  
Draco glanced at the window, seeing the afternoon sprinkle for the first time. Something warm bloomed inside him at the sight, curling his lip up at the corner. A familiar feeling. “What a shame,” he mumbled, “I’d hate to be trapped inside with you during a storm.”  
  
Harry let out a laugh, face shining in that way that still completely undid him. “Yeah. A real shame.”  
  
Thunder rumbled across the horizon, promising some distant calamity, but all Draco could think was how perfect and safe he felt in here with his own little personal piece of sunshine.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! I hope you enjoyed my story—and be sure to check out the other fest submissions as well!


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